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MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH, 


Author of “Unknown,” “ The Hidden Hand,” “ The Unloved 
Wife,” “Gloria,” “David Lindsay,” etc., etc . 


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Copyright, 1876 and 1892, 

BY ROBERT BONNER’S SONS. 

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{All rights reserved.) 


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CHAPTER I. 


A HORROR IN HIGH LIFE. 

She looked, how pallid there ! 

Not starting, sighing, weeping now. 

The quiet anguish of her brow 
Was written by despair. — Michell. 

PON a certain memorable day, on 
the opening of the summer term 
of 1 8 — , the criminal court-room 
was crowded nearly to suffocation. 

Every seat was filled, every foot 
of standing ground occupied, while, 
from the wide-open double-doors, 
could have been seen a sea of 
heads, pressing up from the stair- 
way and lobby and choking the 
^ entrance. 

In this sultry July weather, although every window 
was thrown open, the atmosphere of the place, charged 
with the breath of many hundreds of men and women, 
was heavy to faintness. Yet not even for a breath of 

[ 7 ] 




8 


“ Em. 


fresh air would any one leave the court-room. All per- 
sistently kept their seats or stood their ground. 

The case about to be commenced was one of unpar- 
alleled interest. 

A crime had been committed in the centre of a great 
city that had thrilled with horror and amazement the 
whole circumference of the country. 

For weeks past the case had absorbed public attention 
and furnished the most sensational items for the press. 

This general and profound interest was excited not 
only by the character of the crime, atrocious as it was 
in itself, but also by that of the supposed criminal. 
Emolvn Wyndeworth, a young and lovely girl, the only 
child and heiress of one of the most aristocratic and 
wealthy families in the country, and hitherto a maiden 
of the fairest fame. 

Only a few months before she had been the darling 
of a delightful home, the idol of a large social circle ; now 
she stood at the bar of justice, arraigned on the awful 
charge of murder. 

The history of this cause celebre is as follows : 

Emolyn Wyndeworth was the only child and sole 
heiress of General Archibald Wyndeworth, of Wynde 
Slopes, Maryland. 

By the early death of both her parents she had been 
left an orphan at the tender age of seven years. 

Naturally she fell under the guardianship of her sole * 
surviving male relative, who happened to be her 
father’s uncle, the aged Captain Oliver Wyndeworth, 
late of the United States Navy. 

The captain had long retired from active service, and 
lived at ease in a fine old-fashioned suburban mansion 
surrounded by extensive grounds, shaded by old forest 
trees, and overlooking the river at Green Point, the 
southern extremity of the city. 


A Horror in High Life. 


9 


During the lifetime of his accomplished wife, and 
the girlhood of his dashing daughter, Malvina, the old 
mansion at Green Point had been the seat of an elegant 
and affluent hospitality, the resort of beauty, fashion 
and celebrity. 

Of late years, however, since the decease of this wife 
and the marriage of this daughter, the lonely widower’s 
home had come to be the rendezvous of certain “ choice 
spirits” from among the higher officers of the army and 
navy, and the more eminent statesmen of the senate 
and the house. 

In one word, sumptuous Green Point had become 
transformed into a sort of an aristocratic “ Headlong 
Hall.” 

Captain Wyndeworth had been living this free-and- 
easy bachelor life about five years, when he suddenly 
found himself encumbered with the care of his little 
orphan grand-niece, Emolyn. 

The news came to him in this way. 

It was on a clear, bright morning earl) 7 in July, and 
Captain Wyndeworth was seated at the head of his 
batchelor breakfast-table, surrounded by some half a 
dozen “ jolly dogs,” who had been spending the sum- 
mer holidays with him, and who found themselves too 
comfortable and happy to shorten their visit — when the 
mail-bag was brought in. 

The host took it, unlocked it, and emptied its con- 
tents upon the table. 

They consisted of several newspapers and one letter. 

He passed the newspapers around among his guests, 
and then asked leave to read the letter, which was for 
himself. 

He had no sooner done so, however, than he sank 
back in his chair, and, with his gray hair on end, ex- 
claimed : 


IO 


“ Em. 


“ Here’s a go !” 

“ What’s up ?” inquired Senator Erskine, an eminent 
politician, who was very recherche in his language on 
the floor of the legislative hall, or in the drawing-rooms 
of society, but who was by no means choice in the 
selection of his words at the bachelor breakfast-table 
of the old retired naval officer. 

“ What the d — 1 is up ?” he repeated, seeing that his 
host still stared at the open letter in his hand. 

“ A very deuce of a dilemma !” exclaimed the cap- 
tain, running his fingers through the porcupine quills 
represented by the iron-gray hair that stood upright 
on his forehead — “ A very d — 1 of a dilemma !” 

“ Ay ! I see that, in general, but what is it in partic- 
ular ?” inquired Mr. Erskine. 

“ Listen !” exclaimed Captain Wyndeworth, and 
while his guests left their newspapers unopened, and 
gave him their utmost attention, he read aloud his 
letter, which proved to be from a Maryland lawyer, 
announcing the death of his nephew’s widow and the 
legacy she had left him, in the shape of the guardian- 
ship of the infant heiress, Emolyn. 

“ And not a lady in the house to look after the little 
lass !” groaned the unwilling guardian, with a gesture 
of desperation and a look of dismay, that was fully 
reflected in the faces of all his boon companions. 

But no one spoke. 

“ Now, what is to be done ? Why the deuce don’t 
you suggest something ?” impatiently demanded the 
captain of his perplexed council. 

“ Decline the trust,” said Senator Erskine. 

“ Yes, of course, do that!” added his relieved com- 
rades-in-cards. 

“Can’t do ^ that* gentlemen! What? Refuse to 
receive my poor, dead and gone nephew’s orphan child. 


A Horror in High Life . 


1 1 


Not likely ! To be sure, I have not seen the lad for a 
score of years, or so, but I feel that he was my elder 
brother’s only son, ay ! and a gallant officer, too, or he 
never could have risen to the rank of a brigadier- 
general before the age of forty years, as he did so !” 
added the captain, warmly. 

“ Let us see ! He was your elder brother’s only son, 
and therefore the heir of the old ancestral estate of 
Wynde Slopes ! And this babe is his sole child and 
heiress ! Why, see here, if the child had died as well 
as her parents, you, and your daughter Malvina after 
you, would have come in for that fine property, would 
you not ?” Suggested General Byng, another brother- 
in-cards and boon companion of the old sailor. 

“ Yes, I suppose so ; but I never gave it a thought. 
Poor Archy ! I am sorry for his orphan child.” 

“ Let us see : He was killed in a skirmish with the 
Utes, or the Cheyennes, which was it ?” inquired the 
senator. 

“ With neither ! He was not killed at all ! No, sir ! 
He, who had always been victorious over Indians and 
Spaniards, and all other savages and enemies, fell a 
victim to Yellow Jack, at last ! Yes, sir, he died, if you 
will remember, about five years ago, while his brigade 
was at New Orleans, during the deadly fever season. 
After his death his widow, with their only child, 
returned to Wynde Slopes, where they have lived in the 
strictest retirement ever since. But now the widow, 
who has suffered from heart-disease ever since her hus- 
band’s death, has suddenly followed him to the other 
world — as you have heard from the lawyer’s letter. 
The child will be brought to me, and I cannot repulse 
her,” emphatically concluded Captain Wyndeworth. 

“ It will be a deuce of a bother !” observed General 
Byng. 


“ Without doubt ! But I must take her all the same, 
though what I shall do with her heaven only knows,” 
groaned the newly-made guardian. 

“ Board her out with some female relative or friend,” 
suggested Commander Bruce, another whist-playing 
cronie of his host. 

“ The child has not one in the world except my 
daughter Mai., who is with her husband in his quarters 
at Plattsburg — no place to bring up a girl. Besides 
Mai. never would be bothered with her ! Having put 
her own little girl away at boarding-school, it is not 
likely that she will trouble herself with other people’s 
children.” 

“ So then Mrs. Warde is with the major at Platts- 
burg ?” observed Senator Erskine, reflectively. 

“ Oh, yes. Of course she is ! Mai. trots around after 
Warde wherever he goes, and leaves her only child, a 
little girl, at boarding-school, as I said.” 

“ Then, by the way, why not place this little charge 
of yours at boarding-school with her cousin ?” suggested 
Commander Bruce. 

“ What ! Send a seven-year old babe to school ? 
How do I know what sort of treatment the helpless lit- 
tle one might receive from teachers and Schoolmates? 
No, gentlemen, I must keep the child home, home here , 
where she will be sure of kindness if she is sure of 
nothing else.” 

This ended the controversy. 

The breakfast party soon arose from the table, and in 
the course of a few days the summer guests took leave 
of Green Point. 

A week after the departure of the company, in the 
midst of a midsummer thunder-storm, little Emolyn 
Wyndeworth arrived, in charge of a lawyer’s clerk and 
a colored nurse. 


4 Horror in High Life. 


i 


The clerk left as soon as he had delivered the infant 
heiress and certain documents into the hands of the 
guardian and trustee. 

The nurse, of course, remained in attendance upon 
her little mistress. 

Emolyn Wyndeworth, at the age of seven, was a fair, 
fragile-looking little creature, with a small, softly- 
moulded form, slender yet well-rounded limbs, taper 
wrists and ankles, and tiny hands and feet, a graceful 
neck, and an elegant little head, covered with a pro- 
fusion of pale auburn hair that shone like a halo around 
a lovely little face of delicately chiselled features and 
clear rosy complexion, lighted up by a pair of radiant 
blue eyes, full of life and love, mischief and merriment. 

One would read her, at a glance, for a most affection- 
ate and confiding child, who would be sure to win the 
hearts of all around her ; but, also, for a most willful 
and erratic little spirit, who would be equally sure to 
give a great deal of trouble to her teachers and attend- 
ants. 

When she was taken before her uncle, while still in 
her quaint little travelling suit of dark blue gingham, 
with a straw hat and blue vail, he received her very 
tenderly, took her up in his arms, kissed her, said he 
was very glad to see her, and that he hoped she would 
like to stay with him and be his little girl. 

The child returned his kiss and said she would. 

But having an exquisite little supper on hand for 
that night, the old captain soon turned his little ward 
over to his colored housekeeper, Aunt Monica, with 
only one simple direction as to her treatment : 

“ Make her as happy and comfortable as ever you 
can, and never let me hear her cry.” 

Aunt Monica, gravely shaking her wise old head, 


H 


“ Em. 


took the child away to change her travelling suit for a 
house dress. 

A handsome, spacious chamber on the third floor 
front had been assigned to the little girl, so that she 
might be at the same time well lodged and entirely out 
of the way of her uncle. 

To this room Aunt Monica led little Emolyn, and here 
they found the pretty mulatto nurse, Melpomene, whose 
tragic name the child had funnily abbreviated to 
“ Pony.” 

The girl was standing over the large open trunk that 
contained the orphan’s whole wardrobe, including not 
only her new mourning outfit, but also a large stock of 
colored dresses. 

Melpomene had selected a neat black bombazine dress 
and laid it out. 

Then it was that the young lady’s self-will was made 
very manifest. 

“ Pouy, if you please, I will not wear that black dress,” 
.she said, with a precise little politeness peculiar to her- 
self. 

“ But, honey, you got to wear black for your dead 
mother,” said Melpomene. 

“ My mamma is not dead, Pony ! Nobody ever dies. 
They go out of their bodies. That is all. Mamma told 
me so. She is gone home to papa. And when the Lord 
calls me, my mamma and papa will come and take me 
home too. You ought to know that, you dear old Pony, 
for you have heard the Bible read often enough,” said 
the child, with a quaint gravity. 

“Lord bless us and save us, who put such things as 
that in the young one’s head ?” exclaimed Monica in 
wonder. 

“ Her father and her mother did ; and out of the Word 


A Horror in High Life . 


15 


of the Lord, too. I do suppose it is all true, only one 
can’t always be thinking of it.” 

‘‘Well, there! You better dress the child, and not 
waste your time ’xpounding feeology !” said Aunt Mon- 
ica. 

“ Come, honey, put on your pretty black dress for 
poor Pony,” pleaded the nurse, coaxingly. 

“ Oh, Pony, I cannot. I do not like black. Besides, 
I promised dear, sweet mamma not to wear black and 
not to weep. So I will not wear black, and I will not 
weep, if — if — if — I can help — help — help it ! But you 
should not tell me that she is de — de — dead !” cried the 
child, losing all her self-command and bursting into 
irrepressible sobs and tears. 

“ There ! there ! there ! Let me shut the door, for 
goodness gracious sake ! We musn’t let the old marster 
hear her cry ! The first and last word he said to me 
about the child was to make her happy and comfort- 
able, and not to let him hear her cry !” exclaimed 
Monica, in comic consternation, as she hurriedly closed 
the door. 

Meanwhile Melpomene was trying to console the 
weeping child with tender caresses and earnest assur- 
ances that her mother was in heaven. 

“ I know — know she is, but I can — cannot help crying. 
I will stop — stop as soon as I can,” sobbed Emolyn, on 
seeing how her emotion distressed her attendants. 

“ The — there ! I have done now,” she sighed, wiping 
her eyes. “ I have done now only, please, never say 
that mamma is dead. It is so awful for any one to say 
that !” 

“I’ll bite the end of my tongue off sooner !” exclaimed 
Melpomene. 

“ Now, Pony, give me my sky-blue organdie dress, 


“ Em. 


16 


with the white lace trimming. I will wear that,” con- 
cluded the orphan, decisively. 

“ But, honey !” cried Melpomene. 

“ Give it to her, for goodness sake ! I tell you, old 
marster say we must make her happy, and never let him 
hear her cry ! Better mind what old marster say ! 
Tell you, if he turn and look at you once, with his great, 
big, blue eyes, you’ll think you’re shot dead ! Give the 
child her own way. Don’t let him hear her cry,” 
implored Monica. 

Melpomene complied, though with deep sighs. 

As soon as the little fairy princess was dressed to her 
satisfaction, she put her arms around her nurse’s neck 
and kissed her, cooing like a little dove. 

“ I do love you, dear, pretty Pony ! I do love you so 
much ; only, please, never again try to make me do what 
I don’t like ! It kills me /” 

Melpomene warmly returned her caresses, and prom- 
ised all she wished. 

A few minutes later the little girl went down stairs 
alone and found her way to her uncle’s study, and 
stood before him a vision of infantile beauty, with her 
perfect little form, clear, rosy complexion, auburn hair, 
and azure eyes, set off well by her bright blue dress 
with the white lace trimming, and the blue and white 
ribbons that tied up her tresses. 

“ The very image of her father in his childhood, only 
more lovely and dainty. Come here, you little fairy ; 
and let me kiss you,” said the captain, as he held out 
his hands to welcome her. 

She ran into his arms and kissed him. 

He lifted her to his knee, and inquired : 

“Now, who sent you down here to bother me ?” 

Nobody sent me, uncle. I came of my own free will !” 



“this is very bad.”— See Page 112. 



















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i7 


A Horror in High Life. 


“ Really ! Well, why are you not wearing black, for 
your mother ?” 

“ Because mamma wished me not to do so.” 

“ Oh, a very sufficient reason.” 

“Yes, but not to deceive you, uncle, there was 
another reason,” added the child, sagely shaking her 
auburn tresses and raising her blue eyes to his face. 

“ Indeed ! Well, what was it ?” inquired the amused 
old man. 

“ Because I do not like to wear black.” 

“ Really, now ? And do you never do what you do 
not like ?” inquired the captain, looking wistfully into 
his little ward’s face. 

“ Oh, yes, very often, when I think it is for the best, 
and when I do it of my own free will ! And then I often 
come to like what at first I did not. But, oh ! it kills 
me for any one to try to make me do what I don’t like ! 
/ never want to make any body do what they don’t like. 
‘ And I say it kills me for any one to try to make me,' ” 
added Emolyn, inspired by the memory of Melpomene’s 
effort to rule over her. 

The old sailor looked down on the earnest little face, 
murmuring : 

“ Ah ! a true Wyndeworth ! It is liberty or death 
with you, as with all your race ! The love of liberty is 
not only a principle, but a passion with them. It is a 
pity you were born a girl, my child : for with you the 
love of liberty will be the hare’s not the lion’s. You 
will run for freedom, not fight for it.” 

“ I do not know. I cannot tell until I am tried,” an- 
swered Emolyn sagely. 

“My venerable friend,” said the captain, gravely 
regarding her, “ how old might you be ?” 

“ I am seven years old, sir.” 

“ Oh ! I thought by the wisdom of your remarks you 


“ Em. 


might be seventy. Now, then, ran away and amuse your- 
self like a little girl of seven. * My house, my servants, 
and myself are yours,’ as the polite Spaniards say ! Run 
away ! I am going to have a lot of fellows here to sup- 
per to-night, and I must study the concoction of a new 
salad ! I will beat Bruce at salads, if I die for it ! But 
such low ambitions are beneath the dignity of your 
years and wisdom. When I need the sage counsels of 
age, I will send for you. Go.” 

Emolyn, feeling vaguely that she was good-humoredly 
ridiculed, smiled and kissed her uncle and ran out. 

The lonely child roamed all over the house, up .and 
down stairs, and into every room and closet, until, at 
last, quite tired out, she lay down on the attic floor and 
fell fast asleep, and slept until she was found there by 
the half-distracted nurse, who had sought her “ sorrow- 
ing ” all the afternoon, and who, now rejoicing, carried 
her to the spacious third-floor front chamber, and un- 
dressed and put her to bed, without waking her. 

<k But she hasn’t had her supper,” objected Monica, 
when she found what had been done. 

“ Never wake up a child to feed it. That is too gross,” 
replied Melpomene. 

Such was the reception of little Emolyn Wyndeworth 
and such was her first day at Green Point. 

But the next morning Emolyn was up with the sun, 
and down in the dining-room in time to take her break- 
fast with her uncle. 

And so, day by day, she won her way into the old 
man’s affections, until at length her presence* became 
very necessary to his comfort and happiness. 

Having no children or grandchildren around him, 
the kind old captain petted and spoiled his little ward, 
as if he had been her grandmother instead of her great- 
uncle. 


A Horror in High Life 


19 


The household took their cue from their master, so 
that it soon became a contest among- the domestics, 
who should humor the little mistress the most. 

Even the visitors of the house vied with each other, 
in little attentions to the child. 

So the little Emolyn Wyndeworth became the darling 
of her home and the idol of its social circle. 

On her eighth birthday, her uncle made her a weekly 
allowance of five dollars for pocket-money, which he 
punctually paid every Saturday morning. 

“ Just to do as she pleases with ! Just to throw away 
on toys and sweetmeats, or in any way she chooses ! 
It is good for trade any way, and life is not so long for 
any of us, that I should deny her this independence in 
her childhood,” said the old captain to himself in excuse 
for his indiscretion. 

Emolyn was wild with delight at being put in posses- 
sion of this revenue. 

“ Now, Pony !” she exclaimed to her nurse and con- 
fidant, “ I have got money to spend as I like ! And 
now I can suckle the poor. Mamma always told me 
when I should have money of my own to spend I must 
suckle the poor,” she added, making a little mistake in 
the use of words, such as young children are apt to 
make, but doing it so softly and sweetly as to suggest a 
nursing mother’s tender love in these ministrations to 
the needy. 

And from that day forth she did succor the poor, and 
found her deepest delight in doing it. 

One young playmate the lonely child had, and only 
one. This was Leonidas Bruce, the son of the com- 
mander. A very pure, close affection bound the hearts 
of these children together. 

“ Lonny” Bruce, the companion of all her amuse- 
ments, was also her escort in all her walks down into 


20 


“ Em." 


the narrow streets and alleys, where she found the suf- 
fering little children of the Lord, whom she delighted 
to relieve. 

“ Why don’t you buy some rock almond candy some- 
times ? It’s awful nice !” said Lonny Bruce one day, as 
he walked by her side, carrying a market basket filled 
with provisons for her poor. 

“ I’ll buy some for you if you want it,” replied the lit- 
tle girl ; “ but as for me, when I eat candy, it is gone and 
gives me no more pleasure. But when I take a shin of 
beef and some vegetables to poor Stark’s family on 
Saturday night, oh, bless you ! I think all day Sunday 
how they are enjoying cooking and eating their soup, and 
it makes me so happy ! And so in other cases. Now, 
last Saturday I did want to buy a black-eyed doll. I do 
dote on black-eyed dolls ; but it would have cost five 
dollars, which was all I had, and I wanted to get a 
warm shawl for poor old Mrs. Smith. And oh ! next 
day, when I saw her at church looking so comfortable 
and respectable in her large woolen shawl, I could not 
think of the black-eyed doll for feeling all the time how 
warm and pleased she was. Now, who would not 
rather have felt that than owned the doll ? Oh, I tell 
you I get a great deal of pleasure out of my five dollars 
a week.” 

So the loving, self-willed, generous, erratic child 
grew from month to month, and from year to year, 
untaught and untrained. In the garden of her soul the 
'weeds and flowers grew and flourished together. 

Only, as time passed, there was one friend who did 
take the responsibility of expostulating with Captain 
Wyndewortli on the subject of his ward’s education. 

This was Mrs. Commander Bruce. 

She put it strongly to the guardian that Miss Wynde- 
worth, the daughter of General Archibald Wyndeworth, 


A Horror in High Life. 2 1 


should not be allowed to grow up in total ignorance of 
all that a young lady should be taught ; but she should 
be sent to a first-class boarding-school or be provided 
with competent teachers at home. 

Now, the presence of Emolyn had become too vital a 
necessity to the happiness of the old captain to permit 
him to think of parting with her ; but he compromised 
the matter by engaging an accomplished Scotch lady, a 
Miss McCormick, as resident governess, and three 
learned professors — namely, of music, painting, and 
languages — to attend and give lessons on certain days. 

But both governess and professors were notified by 
Captain Wyndeworth that they were not expected to 
restrain or to coerce Miss Wyndeworth in any partic- 
ular. 

So Emolyn kept her school hours, or gave herself a 
holiday — met her appointments with her masters, or 
sent them away with an excuse, as she pleased. 

And if ever Lonny Bruce happened to have had a 
holiday given him , or to have played truant on his own 
account, and come to invite her to go with him to see 
a ship launched at the Navy Yard, or a dress-parade at 
the barracks, or to hear the band play in the park, then 
governess or professor was instantly sent to the right 
about, and the gentle little outlaw was off with her 
companion on a frolic. 

Her education was so desultory, that had she not 
been blessed with a quick perception, strong under- 
standing and retentive memory, she must have grown 
up an utter ignoramus, while her will was so uncon- 
trolled that had she not been gifted with a sweet tem- 
per and a sensitive conscience, she must have developed 
into a passionate and unscrupulous little despot. 

As it happened, she was as amiable and intelligent as 
she was beautiful and attractive ; so that her willfulness 


“ Em." 


harmed no one except, perhaps, herself. She was the 
sunshine of her uncle's house, happy in herself, and 
making the happiness of all around her. 

As she grew from childhood toward girlhood, her 
uncle gradually increased her allowance, and when she 
was but fourteen years old, he entrusted her with an 
income of twelve hundred dollars a year for her own 
personal expenses. 

“ The child loves to have her own way. She shall 
have it in spending some of her own money at least. 
She might as well learn to buy her own clothes now as 
any other time, especially as she has no mother to do it 
for her,” said her old uncle to himself, in extenuation 
of conduct that many might have called injudicious at 
least. 

This new allowance delighted Emolyn, because it 
gave her ampler means to “ succor ” her poor. She did 
not profess to “ suckle ’’ them now. Since the advent of 
her accomplished governess she had mended her phra- 
seology. 


CHAPTER II. 

A soul’s tragedy. 

Ah me ! Despite a governed breast, 

Seeming the while at perfect rest. 

What anguish soul may bear ! — Michel. 

Emolyn Wynde worth lived this free, active and joy- 
ous life until she reached her seventeenth year, when 
she assumed her place as the mistress of her uncle’s 
house, sat at the head of his table and entertained his 
guests. 


A Soul's Tragedy. 


2 3 


She was the angel of his domestic life and the queen 
of his social circle. 

But before the close of this year sorrows came upon 
her “ in battalions.” 

First, her uncle’s only daughter, Mrs. Malvina Warde, 
lost her husband, who was killed in a sudden attack of 
the Cheyenne Indians upon Fort Awe, where his regi- 
ment was then stationed, and where both were living at 
the time of his death. 

Having nothing to live on but his pension as a major’s 
widow, Mrs. Warde, after an absence of fifteen years, 
returned to her father’s house. 

Malvina Warde was, at this time, about thirty-eight 
years of age — a tall, dark-eyed, dark-haired, handsome 
woman ; but a born and bred tyrant, whose natural 
despotism had, by her military life, been hardened into 
inflexibility. 

The very first step taken by Mrs. Warde on re-enter- 
ing her father’s house was to mount her long vacated 
throne at the head of the domestic kingdom, to the 
total overthrow of the little queen who had so long 
reigned there supreme. 

Her next step was to assert a degree of authority 
over Emolyn Wyndeworth that the gentle little outlaw 
could by no means endure. 

Emolyn was a singular compound of willfulness and 
toleration which seemed incongruous, but which was 
not really so ; for her nature was perfectly harmonious, 
and her conduct consistent. To a passionate love for 
her own moral free agency, she united a deep religious 
reverence for that of all other creatures ; so that while 
she could not bear to have her own freedom profaned, 
she would have shrank from invading that of 
another. 

This young girl would never have been happy under 


24 


“ Em. 


any other circumstance than in the perfect liberty she 
had enjoyed in her uncle’s house up the time of her 
cousin’s return. 

Now, indeed, all her happiness departed. Mrs. 
Warde was determined to conquer her, and to reduce 
her to military discipline in the observance of set rules 
and set hours for rising and retiring ; for eating and 
drinking ; for work and recreation ; for going out and 
coming in. 

But Emolyn quietly refused to be governed by “ mar- 
tial law,” and tacitly set Mrs. Warde and her rules at 
naught. 

Then ensued a long and bitter struggle between the 
woman and the girl. Mrs. Warde strove for conquest ; 
Emolyn for liberty. 

It would take too long to tell of all the acts of petty 
insolence by which the widow made the girl’s “ life a 
burden ” to her. 

The strife continued unremittingly, with ever increas- 
ing malice on the part of Malvina Warde, and of suffer- 
ing on that of Emolyn Wyndeworth, until at length 
Captain Wyndeworth interfered. 

“ Let the girl alone,” he said. “ She has always had 
her own way, let her have it still.” 

“She will go to her destruction !” exclaimed Mrs. 
Warde, viciously. 

“ No, she won’t, unless you drive her to it, which you 
may do if you keep on nagging her at this rate. She is 
a true Wyndeworth, and has been like a daughter to me 
all these years that you have been away. I always let 
her do as she pleased, and I must say that she has always 
pleased to do right. Let her alone, I say. Don’t tyran- 
nize over her. I won’t have it.” 

This little contest took place at the dinner-table, to 
which Emolyn had come in from one of her walks 


A Soul's Tragedy. 


2 5 


among the poor whom she succored. She sat down 
without changing her dress ; for which breach of dis- 
cipline Mrs. Warde had ordered her to leave the room, 
when Captain Wyndeworth came to her rescue, as re- 
lated. 

Mrs. Warde knew exactly how far she could venture 
to go in opposition of her father’s will, and so she 
desisted from her despotism at the moment, and felt 
obliged to modify her treatment of Emolyn by descend- 
ing from torturing the girl to the milder persecution of 
annoying her. 

But she never forgave her father for the words he 
had spoken, or Emolyn for the rebuke she had heard. 

She had many selfish reasons for hating the orphan ; 
the first was, that Emolyn Wyndeworth stood be- 
tween her and the inheritance of the great Wynde Slopes 
estate, which she coverted for herself beyond all meas- 
ure. The second was, that Emolyn had supplanted her 
in her father’s affection. The third was, that she had 
evidently won the heart of Leonidas Bruce, whom Mrs. 
Warde had mentally set apart as the husband of her 
own daughter, soon to be brought from boarding-school. 
The last and most exasperating was, that she had been 
rebuked by her father upon Emolyn’s account, and in 
Emolyn’s presence. 

She had been the girl’s tyrant ; she was now her 
bitter, uncompromising, unscrupulous enemy, whose 
malice was only restrained by the presence of that girl’s 
protector. 

But ah ! the hour was at hand when the authority of 
the old captain could no longer shield his niece. 

One night the kind-hearted old man had a paralytic 
stroke that stretched him on his bed a helpless and 
speechless invalid. 

And though after a few weeks he recovered the use 


26 


Em. 


of his speech, he never quite regained the faculties of 
his mind. 

Emolyn was wild with grief. No suffering that Mal- 
vina Warde had ever inflicted on her was to be com- 
pared to the anguish of her soul on beholding the con- 
dition of her beloved uncle. 

“ I could have borne his death,” she said to her confi- 
dant, Lonny Bruce. “ I could have borne his death, 
because I know that ‘death is an orderly step in life 
but this ! Oh, Lonny ! Lonny !” 

“ It can’t last long, Lynny. He will soon be released 
and go to heaven. Father says so,” answered the youth. 

“ Oh, but the doctor says he may live in this wretched 
state for years and years ! And, oh ! Lonny ! my cruel 
cousin will not even let me help to nurse him — no, nor 
even see his dear old face. She leads me such a life, 
Lonny ! She tries to make a slave of me ! Of me, a 
free-born spirit.” 

“ I wish she vras a man. I’d thrash him ! But why 
don’t you fight her ? It is all very well to talk about 
behaving like a young lady, but when things come to 
this pass, you know, why don’t you fight her ?” 

“ Oh ! I cannot fight, Lonny. But I would run away 
if it were not for uncle, though he would not know me, 
for he does not know anybody, Pony tells me. Yes, I 
would run away, if it were not for uncle and for you, 
Lonny. For I know if I were to run away, she would 
make you marry Belinda, her daughter.*' 

“ Make me — make me — marry Belinda ! Why, I don’t 
know the girl ! And what’s more, I don’t want to know 
her if she is like her mother !” exclaimed the youth, his 
dark eyes dilated with angry surprise. 

“ She twits me with this — that I am making a fool of 
myself by associating with you, for that your father and 


A Soul's Tragedy. 


2 7 


herself long ago agreed that you were to marry her 
daughter !” added Emolyn. 

“ I never heard of such a piece of insolence in all my 
life ! What right has she and the governor to marry 
me and Belinda, I should like to know ?” indignantly de- 
manded the youth. 

“ Then you never will do it, Lonny ?” murmured Em- 
olyn. 

“ Who, I ? — I marry any other young lady than — Not 
likely ! Not even possible ! I don’t know that I ever 
before told you in so many set words that I hope to 
marry you , Lynny, when the proper time shall come. 
But surely you must have known it all along, just as 
well as I did,” said the lad, earnestly and anxiously. 

“ Yes, I did know it all along, Lonny. But Mrs. 
Warde is an awful woman. I did not know what she 
might bring you to do !” 

“ She will never bring me to be false to you, Lynny ! 
Do not think it of me.” 

“ Well, then, since you are safe, I think if she tries to 
enslave me any more than she has, I must run away,” 
sighed Emolyn. 

“ Oh ! don’t dream of it, Lyn ! Be patient, dear Lyn, 
until I come back.” 

“ ‘ Come back.’ Oh, Lonny ! are you going away ?” 
exclaimed Emolyn, turning pale. 

“ Yes, Lynny, I came over this morning to tell you. 
My father has procured a midshipman’s warrant for 
me, and I am to sail on the Eagle for the Mediterranean 
on the first of next month.” 

A cry of despair broke from the lips of Emolyn. 

“ Oh, Lonny ! Lonny ! Lonny ! my heart will break 
when you are gone ! I shall not have a friend left to 
save my life !” she cried. 

“ Oh ! don’t talk so, dear Lyn !” pleaded the boy. 


28 


“ Em. 


“ Oh, I cannot bear it, Lonny ! I shall die !” cried 
Emolyn, bursting into a wild storm of tears and sobs. 

“ Oh, don’t ! don’t cry, Lynny ! I am not gone yet, 
and something might happen to prevent my going ; so 
don’t cry until I am gone, Lynny !” coaxed the lad. 

“Yes, but when you are gone, I shall have no one to 
comfort me when I cry ! And, besides, who knows but 
out in foreign countries you may mee — meet some beau- 
tiful young lady, whom you will li — li — like better than 
me, so I shall never se — se — see you again,” said the 
girl, amidst tempestuous sobs and tears that rendered 
her words nearly unintelligible. 

“ Come out for a walk, dear Lynny. I want to tell 
you something, without the chance of that wicked, old 
hyena overhearing us. I want to make you as safe and 
happy as I can before I go away— if I must go,” said the 
lad, innocently drawing out his own pocket-handkerchief 
and wiping away her tears. 

Emolyn, whose storm of grief had somewhat sub- 
sided, followed him to the front passage, where she 
took her straw hat from the rack, drew her gloves from 
her pocket, and put them all on — and having thus 
simply and quickly prepared for her walk, she went out 
with her boy-companion. 

It was a lovely morning in June. A clear blue sky 
canopied the green and blooming earth, and the broad, 
flowing river. Sunshine and bird-music filled all the air. 

“ Lynny,” said the boy, when they had left the house 
behind them, “ let’s go down on the shore and walk 
around the Point, and then go up and see the old 
ruined chapel and Priest Ned.” 

“ Anywhere, so it isn’t in a public street ; for I know 
I shall cry again soon,” said the girl. 

“ No, you won’t. I am going to make you laugh ! I 
am going to make you sure of me, and myself sure of 


A Soul's Tragedy. 


2 9 


you ; and that will fortify our minds against despair in 
our separation, and give you a great deal of strength 
and confidence to withstand old Madam Hyena. So let 
us go to Priest Ned.” 

With quick intuition, Emolyn perfectly understood 
Leonidas ; but surprise and a very natural diffidence 
prevented her making any reply. Nor, indeed, did she 
know what to say, or whether this new plan of Lonny’s 
would make her more or less happy or miserable. 

“You don’t answer, me, Lynny,” said the youth, as 
they walked along. 

“Tell me one thing. Will it make you happy, if I 
consent to your plan, Lonny ?” she inquired, in a low 
voice. 

“ It will make me as happy as a humming-bird and 
as proud as a peacock,” exclaimed the boy, enthusi- 
astically. 

“Then I consent. And — yes, I know it will make 
me happier, too,” said Emolyn. 

So the willful young pair walked dreamily along on the 
soft sands, with the broad, flowing river on their right 
hand, and the green flowery banks on their left, where 
the perfume of the sweetbrier filled the air. 

Soon they came in sight of the deserted chapel and 
the priest’s house — the lonely chapel being little better 
than a ruin, while the priest’s house was a mere hut, 
and the priest himself a hermit. 

A word about this picturesque and romantic ruin as I 
remember it in my childhood. 

The chapel was situated on the high bank that was 
thickly grown with wild roses, sweetbriers, blackberry 
bushes, and other vegetation in an inextricable thicket. 
It was built of small, red, diamond shaped bricks, 
imported in early colonial days from the “ old country.” 
It was very small, having been only the private chapel 


“ Em. 


30 


attached to the manor-house of an ancient Catholic 
family named Barriere — since extinct. The old manor- 
house was destroyed by fire soon after the death of the 
last Barriere, who, in dying, had bequeathed a tiny gem 
of a cottage and a trifling annuity to his private chaplain, 
on condition that the legatee should take care of the 
little chapel, beneath whose chancel stones lay the 
bodies of the last de Barrieres. 

The remainder of the property went to a distant 
relation of another name. 

“ Priest Ned,” as he was called by his irreverent 
neighbors — Father Edward Dubourge, as he had been 
known in his more prosperous days — had attained the 
age of seventy before he lost his patron and gained his 
inheritance. More than thirty years had passed since 
then, and the aged hermit was over a century old. 

The banker and trustee with whom the funds for his 
annuity had been placed had long ago failed, and the 
old pensioner’s annuity was lost in the general financial 
wreck. 

So, lacking the means of keeping the little monu- 
mental chapel and his own little cottage in good order, 
the old man had suffered them both to go to decay. 

He himself might easily have found refuge for his 
age in some Catholic monastery or brotherhood, but he 
prayed to be left alone in his hut, where he had grown 
like an oyster in its shell, so closely that it would have 
been death to have “ shucked ” him. And there “ Priest 
Ned ” remained, living quite alone and faithfully guard- 
ing the graves of his beloved patrons, the de Barrieres, 
under the decaying walls of the monumental chapel. 

He was supported by outside charity, and from the 
time that Emolyn, an eight-year- old child, had first 
received her little allowance and began to “ succor the 
poor,” he had been one of her most beloved proteges. 


A Soul's Tragedy. 


The old centenarian was now unquestionably in his 
dotage, and quite irresponsible for his acts. 

This, the cunning, madcap young “ middy ” knew full 
well, or he never would have selected Priest Ned for the 
service he meant to require. 

The young pair went to the door of the little hut that 
had once been a gem of a little cottage, but was now, 
like the chapel, half in ruin, and they waited while 
Leonidas knocked for admission. 

A quavering voice bade them come in, and they 
entered. 

A tall, gaunt old man, clothed in a long, black gown, 
with a long, pale face, dimly lighted up by a pair of 
deeply-sunken black eyes, and a bald head covered with 
a black skull-cap, stood before them. Such was Priest 
Ned. 

“ Be?iedictie , my children ; what do you please to want ?” 
inquired the hermit of the chapel. 

“ To be married,” blurted forth the boy, while the 
girl dropped down on a ricketty chair and fixed her 
eyes on the mouldering floor. 

“ ‘ To be married !’ ” echoed the priest, with the dazed 
look of dotage. 

“Yes !” persisted Lonny. 

And so saying he took the old man by the front of 
his black gown and began to tell him why he and his 
betrothed wished to be married immediately. 

The longer Lonny talked the more perplexed the 
priest became ; but he comprehended that they wished 
to be united in holy matrimony, and so when Emolyn, 
fearing to lose her husband, came and joined her entrea- 
ties to Lonny ’s arguments, the weak old man yielded ; 
and then and there, without even remembering to ask 
them the usual preliminary questions, he married these 


32 


“ Em. 


foolish children, who were destined yet to weep tears of 
blood for their folly ! 

Lonny paid the priest a good fee and bound him over 
to secrecy. 

Then the newly-married pair left the hut and began 
to retrace their steps along the sands towards Green 
Point — both half-pleased, half-frightened, Lonny rejoic- 
ing in his newly-acquired dignity as a married man, but 
wondering how he should ever face the “ governor” 
with the confession ; Lynny gazing on her wedding- 
ring, and smiling to herself upon being a bride. 

“ Mrs. Leonidas Bruce !” said the boy, mischievously. 

“ Oh ! hush Lonny !” she whispered. 

“I won’t ! — Mrs. Lieutenant Bruce !” 

“ Don’t Lonny ! Don’t !” 

“ I will ! — Mrs. Captain Bruce ! Mrs. Commodore 
Bruce ! And if I could promote you any higher in the 
navy than that, I would. Now shall I take you right 
down into the Yard and up to the governor’s presence 
and introduce you as my wife and his daughter-in-law, 
and ask his protection of you from the hyena ?” 

“ Oh, no, no, no, Lonny, I should die ! Don’t think 
of it ! You frighten me ! Wait until you return from 
your voyage, Lonny — that will be time enough to con- 
fess to the old folks, and then you would have three 
years to stay on land with me.” 

“Yes, but I want to stay with you these precious 
three weeks that I have before sailing ! Come now ! 
let me take you to my father ! He’ll row me, awfully, 
I know, but he can’t undo what's done ; so after he gets 
through with blowing me up, he will remember that I 
am his only son, and that you are an A i match for any- 
body’s son ; and so he will forgive us, and take you 
home, and protect you against that old hyena while I 
am gone. Come, Lynny !” 


A Soul } s Tragedy . 


33 


“ Oh, not for the world, Lonny ! If I had known 
you wanted me to do that, I wouldn’t have married you 
at all !” replied Emolyn, pale and trembling. 

“ Why, that is just what I wanted to marry you for, 
Lynny ; to take you to my father, and give you a law- 
ful refuge from Mrs. Warde’s tyranny. Do come, 
Lynny ! and then I shall go away to sea contented,” 
pleaded the midshipman. 

But Emolyn grew so terrified at the bare idea of 
facing Commander Bruce as the bride of his son by a 
runaway marriage, that she seemed on the very verge 
of swooning. 

Leonidas, frightened in his turn, was obliged to 
desist from his pleadings, while he seated her on a rock 
beside the river to let her recover herself. 

“Well, there, Lynny, I will say no more,” he pouted 
with boyish petulance. “ In hurrying our marriage, 
I had three good objects to accomplish ; to make sure 
of you ; to spend three happy weeks with you in my 
father’s house ; and then, when going to sea, to leave 
you safe and satisfied under my mother’s protection. 
But you will not consent, and I cannot help it.” 

“ Lonny, I am afraid to face your parents,” replied 
the weeping girl ; “ but I will be with you as much as 
ever 1 can, during these last three weeks ; and— know- 
ing that we are united in a bond that nothing but death 
can break, — I shall be armed against all Mrs. Warde’s 
oppressions, with courage and patience enough to bear 
my burdens, and do my duties for the next three years 
of separation. At the end of that time, Lonny, you 
will come back and claim me as your wife, and no one 
will dare to reproach us, for you will be twenty-one 
and of age then ; and I will be eighteen, and, by the 
terms of my father’s will, I shall than be mistress of 
myself and my fortune. Perhaps, then, Lonny, you 


34 


“ Em. 


may leave the navy, and consent to pass your life with 
me, at Wynde Slopes, where you will find enough to do, 
— I tell you ! — in looking after our estate. Surely, 
Lonny, these thoughts, that give me courage to bear 
the next three years of separation, should fortify you 
also against the grief of absence ?” 

“ Lynny, no ! nothing will console me ; but you 
must have your own way, I suppose, so it is of no use 
talking. But, will you stay with me as much as you 
can while I remain here ?” 

“ Indeed I will, Lonny, for are we not married ? And 
are you not all that I have in the world to love me, 
now that my dear uncle — ” 

Her answer ended in a burst of tears. 

The boy wiped them away and kissed her. 

“ We must go home now. It is near dinner-time, and 
Mrs. Warde will be furious if I am not there in time. 
Oh, how I wish I was free !” exclaimed Emolyn, rising. 

“ How I wish you would let me make you free !” 
cried Lonny, as he walked by her side. 

They reached Green Point in good time. 

Mrs. Warde had not even suspected the absence of 
Emolyn. She was too much taken up by the condition 
of her helpless father, at whose bedside she passed nearly 
all her time. It was said by those who knew Malvina 
Warde, that this devotion did not proceed entirely from 
filial affection, but was largely adulterated by self- 
interest ; for, in the event of the old captain’s death, 
his income would die with him, and his daughter, beside 
her own small pension, would have nothing to live on. 
So it was her cue to give her old father the most watch- 
ful attention to restore him to health, if possible, or, at 
least, to keep him and his income alive as long as prac- 
ticable. 

Whatever her motives might have been, her course of 


A Soul ' s Tragedy. 


35 


action was a great relief to Emolyn, who was now left 
in a state of freedom from surveillance, such as she had 
not enjoyed since the advent of her enemy. 

Every morning Emolyn went out with her boy-bride- 
groom for a long, wandering walk down the low, sandy 
shore ; under the shelter of the high green brier-covered 
banks of the river ; or else across the long bridge, and 
into the deep woods on the opposite shore. And every 
evening they spent long hours together in the deserted, 
dimly-lighted drawing-room. 

Mrs. Warde seated in her invalid father’s distant bed- 
chamber, never seemed to suspect what was going on. 

All the servants knew well that there was a courting 
couple in the house ; but as they all hated Mrs. Warde 
and loved Emolyn, not one among them would have 
thought of betraying the orphan heiress and her little 
“ middy.” 

So the secret honeymoon of this young pair passed as 
pleasantly as most patent honeymoons do ; for they 
never dreamed that years of horror and anguish, years 
of remorse and despair, must pay the price of these 
three short weeks of happiness. 



CHAPTER III. 

AFTER THE STOLEN HONEYMOON. 

Her sole prop 

Against the grief that crushed her, was to say. 

Each night, ere she lay down, “ I was so young, 

I had no mother, and I loved him so.” 

And the Lord seemed indulgent, and she dared 
Trust him her soul in sleep. — Browning. 

The brief honeymoon was over and the day of parting 
had come. 

Leonidas Bruce was detained at home all day long, by 
his parents making his final arrangements for his voy- 
age and receiving their last gifts, prayers and counsels. 

Emolyn spent the day in the lonely drawing-room at 
Green Point, much too miserable to think of employing 
herself in any work or study, but now pacing up and 
down the floor ; now throwing herself upon the sofa 
in a violent paroxysm of sobs and tears ; and now ris- 
ing and gazing from the window, in the hope of seeing 
the approach of Leonidas. 

Only once that day she left the room, and that was 
when she was called to dinner. There she had to en- 
counter the sharp, black eyes of Mrs. Warde, who 
looked keenly upon the girl’s tearful eyes and swollen 
lids and smiled grim, sarcastic hatred, but made no re- 
mark. 


[ 36 ] 


A f ter the Stolen Honeymoon. 


37 


After dinner Mrs. Warde repaired to her father’s sick 
chamber, and Emolyn returned to the deserted draw- 
ing-room to resume her woeful watch. 

Day waned and it grew too dark to see anything from 
the window. The servant came in to light the lamps. 

“Light but one, James ; that will be sufficient for 
me,” said Emolyn, in a low tone, for she could scarcely 
trust herself to speak, so broken was her voice. 

The man obeyed and then withdrew. 

When all was still again, Emolyn left the room, 
opened the front door and looked out. 

It was a splendid starlight night in July. 

Emolyn looked up and down the street — a quiet sub- 
urban road, where there were few passers even during 
the day, and where there were none now. The place 
seemed a perfect solitude. 

Emolyn strained her eyes in vain. She saw no 
human being near. She was about to give way to 
another burst of disappointment and grief, when she 
heard the fall of footsteps, rapidly approaching. Well 
she knew those steps, and her heart beat wildly with 
mingled pain and pleasure. Her bridegroom was 
coming to her ; but coming to bid her farewell for three 
years. 

In another moment Leonidas sprang up the steps and 
caught her in his arms. 

“ Oh, Lonny !” 

“ Oh, Linny !” 

“ Why didn’t you come sooner ?” 

“ I couldn’t. The governor kept me busy all day, 
and I on the rack because I couldn’t fly to my dar- 
ling .!” 

“ And I, waiting and wearying and weeping all day 
long — thinking sometimes you would not be able to 


38 


“ Em 


come at all, but would go away without bidding me 
good-by.” 

“Oh, Linny, I would have died first !” 

“ Well, here you are at last, thank Heaven ! Oh, how 
long can you stay with me this last evening, Lonny ?’ ’ 

“ All the evening, dear Linny ; that is, until half-past 
eleven. I came out with an excuse that I wanted to 
see and take leave of some friends. Well, not to tell a 
fib, I did call to see some fellows on my way here, but 
I didn’t spend five minutes on them altogether, and 
begrudged them even that. But mother said she would 
sit up for me, because she wanted to see me again this 
last evening, and so she made me promise to be home 
by half -past eleven at latest. You know how mothers 
are !” 

“ No ; I have no mother,” replied Emolyn, pit- 
eously. 

“ Ah, my poor darling, but you shall have one in 
mine,” lovingly replied the youth. 

“ Come in, Lonny. We must not linger on the porch.” 

“ Is the she-griffin in her lair ?” almost savagely in- 
quired Leonidas. 

“Yes, she is safe in uncle’s room,” naively replied 
Emolyn. “Come in.” 

She took his hand and led him into the drawing-room. 

The hands of the little malachite clock on the mantel- 
piece pointed at half-past seven. 

“ You see I have got four precious, blessed hours to 
stay with you, my darling,” said the youth, calling the 
girl’s attention to the time. 

But before they could seat themselves, she threw her- 
self into his arms and burst into tears. 

“ Now, what is the matter, Linny ? Dear Linny, is 
there any new trouble?” inquired Leonidas, in sympa- 
thetic distress, as he pressed her to his bosom. 


After the Stole7i Honeymoon . 


39 


“ Oh, you are going in four hours ! You are going ! 
Is not that enough to break my heart, without anything 
else ? For there is no new trouble — no other trouble !” 
she gasped through her heavy sobs. 

“ Sit down, dearest Linny, and try to compose your- 
self,” he pleaded, placing her on the sofa and seating 
himself beside her. 

“ Oh, Lonny,” she sobbed, “ this parting will kill me ! 
When you are gone I shall be alone in the world, and 
my poor heart will break !” 

“ Ah ! don’t say so, my darling Emolyn. I shall be 
back in three years !” 

“ Three years is a lifetime ! Three years is forever ! 
I cannot live through them ! I shall be dead and for- 
gotten before they pass away !” wildly replied Emolyn. 

“ Linny, dearest Linny, why do you despair so des- 
perately ? Does that horrible old griffin trouble you 
more than ever ?” 

“ Oh, no ! Less than ever. She hardly ever speaks 
to me. She treats me with silent contempt.” 

“ How dare she !” burst forth the boy. “ I have a 
great mind — ” 

“ Oh, I don’t regard her at all, so that she does not 
restrain my freedom of action ; and she has ceased to 
do that. No. It is not the staying with Mrs. Warde, it 
is the parting with you that crushes me. Oh, Lonny, 
Lonny, what shall I do ? How shall I bear life from 
day to day, until I am let to die !” 

“ Oh, my dear Linny, you quite unman me !” 
exclaimed the youth, in a tone of grief and dismay. 
“ Oh, Linny, let me entreat you to follow my advice 
before it is too late ! Let me even now , at this last 
hour, take 3 r ou to my parents’ house and tell them you 
are my wife, and ask of them their protection for you 
during my absence. In this last sorrowful day of sepa- 


40 


“ Em. 


ration, they will not be inexorable ; they will be merci- 
ful ; they will forgive me ; and they will receive you 
and cherish you tenderly. And I, knowing that you 
will be safe in a loving home, shall go away satisfied,” 
concluded the youth. 

And certainly all good sense and good feeling was on 
his side. 

But Emolyn was not to be persuaded. 

“ Oh, I cannot ! I dare not face the commander and 
Mrs. Bruce with such a confession ! And after three 
weeks’ concealment, too ! I should fall dead at their 
feet ! I feel I should ! Oh ! do not make me sick with 
terror by even talking of such a thing !” said Emolyn, 
turning pale and shivering. 

Leonidas looked more in sorrow than in anger, and 
knew not what next to say. 

“ Besides,” added Emolyn, when she had somewhat 
recovered, “ what good would it do, to confess our mar- 
riage, now that we have to part ? It would not prevent 
you from going away. You would have to go all the 
same.” 

“ But I would leave you, as my wife, in a home of 
peace and safety, free from the power and persecutions 
of Mrs. Warde,” gravely and sadly replied the boy. 

“ I have told you that she does not interfere with my 
free agency any longer, and I do not mind her scornful 
looks at all. And, indeed, since you must leave me, I 
would rather remain here in uncle’s home than in any 
other on earth,” concluded Emolyn, with a heavy sigh. 

Leonidas did not easily yield the point. The youth 
still pleaded with all the budding wisdom and goodness 
of his young spirit ; but the girl continued obstinate, 
with all the obstinacy of cowardice — to which the mere 
firmness of courage is a pillar of sand ! 

“ Oh, dear Lonny !” she sobbed at last, “ do not let us 


After the Stolen Honeymoon. 


4i 


waste these precious moments in disputing with each 
other.” 

“ As you will, you dear, foolish, little woman,” sighed 
Leonidas, who thereupon began to speak of their future 
plan of life. 

“ When I return at the end of three years, dear 
Lynny, we will go to housekeeping at your place, Wynde 
Slopes ; and if I cannot get a long leave, I will resign,” 
he said. 

“ Oh ! three years is a life-time ! Three years is 
forever, I tell you ! I shall not live so long !” impa- 
tiently repeated Emolyn. 

“ Oh, yes, you must, darling ! Besides, there is always 
a chance of my getting home sooner.” 

“ Oh ! How ?” exclaimed and questioned Emolyn, as 
a ray of hope lighted up her face. 

“ Wh} T , as sometimes happens, our ship may capture 
a pirate, and I may be among the officers detailed to 
take the prize home to one of our ports,” Leonidas 
explained. 

“ Oh, indeed ! Oh ! I do hope your ship may meet a 
pirate !” fervently ejaculated Emolyn. 

“ Though, to be sure, there is another view of the 
case,” added the midshipman, thoughtfully. 

“ Oh ! what ?” asked the girl. 

“ Why, in the fight that must ensue, should we meet 
the pirate, the latter might conquer, or else I might be 
killed or taken prisoner.” 

“Oh ! Oh ! I pray you may not meet a pirate !” 
fervently aspirated Emolyn. 

“ Yes, you see, life is full of chances ; but let us hope 
for the happy chances,” solemnly pronounced the young 
philosopher. 

“How often will you write to me, dear Lonny?” 
inquired Emolyn, again on the verge of tears. 


42 


“ Em.” 


“ I will write to you every day of my life ! I will 
send off a packet of letters by every homeward-bound 
ship until we reach some port, and then I will send a 
packet by every mail. There never was such a faith- 
ful correspondent as I will be to you, dear Emolyn.” 

“ There never was such a good fellow in the world 
as my own, true boy !” 

“ And I hope you will answer every one of my letters 
punctually, Emolyn.” 

“ ‘ Hope !’ You know I will !” 

“ How shall I direct my letters, love ? To Mrs. Leon- 
idas Bruce ?” archly inquired the boy. 

“ Oh ! no, no, no ! Do you wish to bring a hornet’s 
nest about my ears ? Oh ! no, no, no, never call me by 
your name until you can return and claim me for your 
wife, without bringing the day of judgment upon 
us r 

“ Little coward ! It shall be as you will ! It is well 
you are a girl, for you would be a very poor specimen 
of a man !” 

“ Reckless desperado ! It is well you are a boy, for 
you would be a most objectionable sort of a woman !” 
retorted Emolyn, trying to pluck up a little spirit even 
from the depths of her grief. 

“ How then shall I direct my letters to you, dear 
Linny ?” again inquired the midshipman. 

“Oh, to Emolyn Wyndeworth, of course.” 

“ Care of Captain Wyndeworth ?” 

“ Oh, horror, no ! Oh, Lonny, why are you always 
proposing to send a bombshell into the house to blow 
us to destruction ? Don’t you know that now, when 
poor uncle is on his sick bed, Mrs. Warde receives the 
mail-bag, and all the letters pass through her hands, 
and that she would not hesitate to open and read mine, 
and then to suppress or destroy them ?” 


After the Stolen Honeymoon . 


43 


“To whom, then, shall I send them ?” 

“ Let me see. Direct them to me, in the care of Mrs. 
Susan Palmer, No. 7 Laundress Lane. She is one of 
my pensioners, you know, Lonny, and lives near this. 
I can trust her ; so I will see her, and ask her to receive 
my letters, and deliver them to me with her own 
hand." 

“ And will you also post yours through her ?" 

“Oh, no! for then she would know who my corres- 
pondent was, and I do not mean to let any one know 
that until we are ready to announce our marriage. No, 
I shall post my letters at night, with my own hand, so 
that no one may see me." 

“ Oh, Linny, I do wish you were not so cautious and 
secretive," sighed the youth. 

“ Ah, Lonny, I am a poor little bird with clipped 
wings in purgatory ! Therefore I am afraid." 

“ My darling little bird ! if you would only let me 
set you free by taking you to my father’s house and 
claiming you for my mate !" pleaded the boy. 

“ You could not set me free, dear Lonny ! You forget 
one thing, dear — that I am still a minor, and your wife 
only by a stolen marriage. To announce that marriage 
now would bring us into all sorts of trouble, if Mrs. 
Warde, acting for her father, and as my next of kin, 
should see fit to disallow the legality of our marriage. 
No, we must wait until I shall be of age.” 

“ Linny ! You never thought of that before, nor 
did I !" said the youth, quite aghast at this view of the 
subject. 

“ No ; but I have lately been reading up on it. So 
you see, dear boy, even if I could summon courage to 
face your father and mother, with the acknowledg- 
ment of our marriage, it would be dangerous on account 
of Mrs. Warde’s enmity." 


44 


“ Em. 


“Yes, I see, I see. We must be patient for three 
years, and then I should like to know what power under 
heaven could part us !” 

“And so, Lonny, we will drop, for the present, the 
subject of announcing our hasty marriage.” 

“ As you will, dear girl ; and now let me take down 
the address of the woman in whose care your letters 
are to be directed,” said Leonidas, as he drew a note- 
book and pencil from his pocket. 

As the young couple talked, inexorable time passed 
on, bringing the hour, the moment of separation. 

At midnight, James, the only man-servant about the 
house, ignorant that any one was in the drawing-room, 
came in to fasten the windows and put out the lights. 

“ Leave the lamp alone, James. I will attend to it,” 
said Emolyn, from the obscurity of her seat. 

“ What is the hour ?” anxiously inquired Leonidas, 
startled out of his forgetfulness. 

“A quarter after twelve, sir,” replied the man, 
astonished to find that there was company at this time 
of night in that dusky room. 

“ Good Heaven ! I had no idea it was so late !” 
exclaimed the midshipman, starting to his feet, drawing 
his watch from his pocket and holding it immediately 
under the lamp. 

“ Leave the room, James. I will attend to the light,” 
said the young girl, whose heart was sinking like lead 
in her bosom, and who did not wish the servant to 
witness the painful parting with her lover. 

The man, who half understood the motive for this 
order, immediately obeyed. 

Then Leonidas hurried back to her side, saying, in a 
voice thick with emotion : 

“ It is really almost half-past twelve, and I promised 
my mother to be home at half-past eleven. Father and 


After the Stolen Honey moo7t. 


45 


I leave for New York at six o’clock to-morrow morn- 
ing-. He is going to see me off. I must go at once. 
Good-by, my own dear darling !” And he held out his 
arms. 

“ Oh, Lonny ! my Lonny ! has the parting moment 
come ? Has it come ?” she cried, starting up and 
throwing herself into his arms with a wild burst of 
grief. 

“ It has come. Try to be firm, my darling,” he 
answered, softly, as he strained her to his bosom. 

She had no more words to say, or no power of saying 
them ; grief choked her utterance ; a storm of sobs, a 
flood of tears were her only language. 

He held her to his heart, trying to soothe and com- 
fort her with loving and tender words and caresses, 
until at length her paroxysm of sorrow exhausted itself, 
and she was calm, or seemed to be so. Then he kissed 
and blessed her, laid her on the sofa, and, heart-broken 
himself, hurried out of the room. 

James, who was sitting half asleep in the hall, roused 
himself up to open the street door for the exit of the 
late visitor. 

He closed and locked it after him, and then went into 
the drawing-room to secure that for the night. 

There, to his dismay, he found his young mistress in 
a fainting condition on the sofa. 

He ran at once to the servants’ room, where he found 
Melpomene alone — sitting up beyond her usual time, 
waiting to hear her young lady’s bell. 

“ Somefin de matter long o’ your Miss Em’lyn ! Bet- 
ter come to her right away !” said the man. 

Without a word of reply, Melpomene, in much alarm, 
sprang up and hurried to the drawing-room, where she 
found her nursling extended on the sofa, pale and 
almost lifeless. 


46 


“ Em. 


“ Oh, my good gracious, what is the matter ? Oh, my 
dear child, tell your own Pony !” cried the woman, 
dropping on her knees at the side of the sofa and rais- 
ing the half unconscious form. 

“ Oh, Pony ?” moaned Emolyn, forgetting all her 
prudence, “ Lonny has gone ! Lonny has gone, and 
my heart is broken ! My heart is broken, Pony !” she 
gasped, losing her breath. 

Melpomene, who saw in the young girl before her 
only a child, and perceived in her despair only a child’s 
sorrow for the loss of a dear playmate, hastened to con- 
sole her with assurances that Lonny Bruce would be 
back again before anybody expected him ; and that 
besides, in the meantime, Emolyn’s cousin, Belinda 
Warde, would be coming home from school for the holi- 
days, and would be a nicer companion for a little lady 
this summer than a wild, harum-scarum boy like Lonny 
Bruce. 

Emolyn, perceiving that she was misunderstood, and 
not caring to enlighten her attendant, made no reply, 
but continued to weep, sob, and gasp as Melpomene led 
her to her chamber and helped her to bed. 

Then Emolyn turned to the woman and sighed and 
panted : 

“ Oh, Pony, dear Pony, don’t go and leave me yet ? 
Sit by me a little while. I feel so frightened !” 

“ Frightened, my child ? Why ?” 

“ Oh, Pony, I don’t know. I feel so lonesome and 
miserable now that Lonny has gone, as if I hadn’t a 
friend in the wide world ! Oh, Pony, don’t go and 
leave me yet ! Stay with me a little while.” 

“ Why, my baby, I will stay with you all night, and 
every night, if you want me to.” 

“ Dear, good Pony ! I love you so ! You are all the 


Emolyn s Woe. 


47 


mother I have got in this world !” said the weeping 
girl, weeping still more at the thought. 

“ Try to go to sleep, Miss Emolyn, and you will feel 
better when you wake. What a heart you must have 
to grieve so after your playmate ! But try to go to 
sleep, my child, while I sit here and watch you.” 

“Yes, Pony ! dear, good Pony !” sobbed the girl, 
yielding one hand to her nurse, and then turning her 
face towards the wall, where, like the child that she 
was, she soon after cried herself to sleep. 

Then Melpomene laid Emolyn’s hand upon the cov- 
erlet, and sunk back in the great arm-chair, and dozed 
comfortably until morning. 


CHAPTER IV. 

emolyn’s woe. 

Breathlessly, impatiently, 

She longed to be free! — S helley. 

How terrible is the awakening from the first sleep 
after any great bereavement through death or depart- 
ure ! 

In sleep we forget our griefs, or in dreams we are 
again with our beloved. 

But we awake to the drear reality, and in doing so 
we suffer afresh the pangs of separation. 

Such an awakening to sorrow seems like the dread 
“ resurrection unto death !” 

Emolyn, prostrated by the violent paroxysms of 
grief that had shaken nearly to dissolution her ill-gov- 


48 


“ Em. 


erned nature, had slept the profound sleep of mentai 
and bodily exhaustion— the sleep of forgetfulness, or of 
temporary death. 

Her awakening was a resurrection to memory and to 
sorrow, and her first utterance was a cry of bitter an- 
guish. 

“ Lonny is gone ! Oh, Lonny is gone !” 

This and the tempest of sobs that followed it aroused 
Melpomene, who was comfortably dozing in the old 
arm-chair. 

“ Oh, my dear honey, don’t take on so ’bout Marse 
Lonny Bruce going to sea ! ’Deed a body might think 
he was your own dear brother as you’d parted from, 
only you hasn’t got any brother ; or even your sweet- 
heart, only you’s too young to have a sweetheart ! 
Don’t take on so, honey ! ’Deed and ’deed you’ll heave 
yourself into a spell of sickness, and then there !” said 
Melpomene, while she arose and went to the dressing- 
table and brought a bottle of eau-de-cologne to her 
young lady. 

As she was bathing Emolyn's face with this fragrant 
restorative there came a rap at the door. 

Melpomene went and opened it. 

“ Here’s Mrs. Palmer, the laundress, come to see Miss 
Emolyn, and won’t ’liver of her message to anybody 
else ! Is Miss Emolyn awake yet ?” spoke the voice of 
Monica, the cook. 

“ Yes, Miss Emolyn is wake ; which she’s poorly, and 
can’t see no wisiters, rich nor poor,” replied Melpomene. 

“ Oh, let Mrs. Palmer come in, dear Pony ! I wanted 
to see her, anyway, and I do suppose she wants help, 
poor thing. Tell Monica to bring her up at once,” said 
Emolyn from her bed. 

Melpomene delivered her message, and in a few min- 
utes Mrs. Palmer entered the room. 


Emolyn s Woe. 


49 


She was a plump, black-eyed, and black-haired little 
woman of about thirty years of age, and was neatly 
dressed in a cheap, dark calico gown and sun-bonnet 
and cape to match. 

“ Pony ! You go down and get your own breakfast, 
and then bring me a cup of tea. Mrs. Palmer will stay 
with me until you return,” said Emolyn. 

“Very well, honey !” said Pony. “ But you, ma’am,” 
she added, turning to Mrs. Palmer, “ don’t you talk too 
much to my young mist’ess, cause if you do you’ll make 
her worse, and she’s quite poorly enough now, and so I 
tell you good.” 

When Melpomene had left the room, Emolyn hastily 
dried her eyes, and beckoned the visitor to come to her 
bedside. 

“ I’m very sorry to find you so unwell, Miss,” said the 
kindly little woman, approaching. 

“ It is only a headache,” replied Emolyn, using the 
plea for all such cases made and provided. “ But I am 
glad you have come, Mrs. Palmer, for I wished very 
much to see you to-day. First of all, however, tell me 
how I can help you.” 

“ Bless your good heart, Miss, it was not for myself I 
came this morning, but to bring you a letter.” 

“ A letter !” echoed Emolyn, in perplexity, for she 
certainly did not expect a letter that day, when she had 
only parted from Lonny on the preceding night. 

“Yes, Miss,” answered the woman, fumbling in her 
pocket, and producing from it a large thick packet. 
“ This here letter was brought to my house early this 
very morning by one of Captain Bruce’s marines, which 
he told me as I was to bring it to you, and put it into 
your own hands, Miss, which that was the reason I 
wouldn’t send it up by any of the servants. So here it 
is, Miss.” 


50 


“ Em. 


“ Oh, thanks !” exclaimed Emolyn, as she received the 
missive. “ Now pray sit down and rest while I read my 
letter.” 

Mrs. Palmer seated herself in the big arm-chair where 
Pony had passed the night. 

“ It is some last word or pledge from my poor Lonny,” 
Emolyn mentally added, as she opened the large en- 
velope. 

And so it was. 

First dropped out a little note addressed to herself in 
Lonny’s hand ; then followed a thick letter sealed and 
directed to Lonney’s father, Commander Bruce. 

Emolyn stared at the last mentioned letter, not being 
able to understand why Lonny, who was in his father’s 
house at the time, should have enclosed to her a letter 
to his father. 

But she quickly slipped it under her pillow, so eager 
was she to read Lonney’s note. 

It was a boy’s frank, affectionate expression of his 
feelings : 

Navy Yard, July 7. 

When I left you last night, my dearest Linny, I was 
filled with anxiety for the safety of my darling. 

When I reached home I was sorely tempted to confess 
our marriage to my parents and invoke their protection 
for my gentle, helpless little wife during my long ab- 
sence. 

I should certainly have done so but for my promise 
to you ; that restrained me ; for an officer and a gentle- 
men (wrote the little middy) must keep his pledge word, 
“ even though it be to his own hurt,” and what is more 
to the hurt of her who is dearer, far dearer to him than 
his own life. 

So I forebore to make the confession that I had prom- 
ised you not to make. 


Emolyns Woe. 


5i 


But after I had bid my mother good-night and retired 
to my own room, oh ! Linny, in the solemn hour of soli- 
tude, I felt that in coaxing you into a private marriage 
I have done you a grievous wrong, that I would give 
my life now to undo. 

Instead of insuring your safety and happiness, as I had 
hoped to do and as I should have done, had you only 
let me tell my parents of our union, I have endangered 
your peace and honor. 

Feeling all this so keenly, I could not compose myself 
to sleep. I have not been to bed at all. I have spent 
the night in writing a long letter to my father, confess- 
ing our marriage and invoking his and my mother’s 
care for you. 

Oh, Linny ! if you love me ; if you care for yourself, 
whom I love better than life or all life holds of good — 
revoke your resolution, and take the enclosed letter to 
my father. Do not be afraid of him ; he will receive 
you as a daughter ; he will receive you with open arms ; 
for my father is a true and loyal gentleman, and never 
to a lady would he utter one word, send one glance 
of reproach — however severely he may feel inclined to 
censure my conduct in this matter. 

Ah, Linny ! if you would only do this and write to 
me that you had done so, and that you were safe in my 
dear mother’s care, how happy you would make me ! 

But if you cannot summon courage to do this, at least 
keep my letter to my father safe by you ; for, Linny, 
the time may come when yoii may sorely need a friend, 
which you cannot find in your invalid uncle, and will 
not find in your enemy, Mrs. Warde. Where, then, can 
you turn but to my father and mother, who are yours 
also because they are mine ? 

Oh, Linny ! how I repent and deplore my weakness 
in yielding to your timidity and promising to keep our 


52 


“ Em. 


marriage a secret from my father and mother ! My 
soul is filled with alarm for you, and cannot be quieted 
but by the intelligence that you are in my father’s house 
as his acknowledged daughter-in-law ! 

I, who have not prayed much in my thoughtless life, 
pray now by day and by night that heaven may save 
and bless you, and forgive your erring but devoted 
lover and husband, Leonidas Bruce. 

Oh ! how Emolyn cried over this letter, forgetting 
the presence of Mrs. Palmer, whose tender eyes were 
suffused with sympathetic tears. 

“ Is it such bad news, dear ?” at last inquired the 
good soul. 

“ Ye-yes,” sobbed Emolyn, telling a little fib — “ bad 
news ! Young Mr. Leonidas — das — Bruce has gone to 
sea on a thre — three years* voyage, and I am so sor — 
sorry for — for — his father and mother ! Their only 
son, you know, and gone for so long !” 

“ Ah, what a tender heart you have, Miss, to weep so 
for other people’s woes,” said Mrs. Palmer, sympatheti- 
cally. 

Poor Emolyn made no reply, but, ashamed of receiv- 
ing unmerited praise, turned her face to the wall and 
felt like a deep hypocrite. 

“ Oh, how I wish I could do something for you, Miss 
Emolyn ! Something for you who have done so 
much — ” 

“ I have done nothing but my duty, Mrs. Palmer, and 
scarcely even that ! But you can do me a great service 
if you please,” sighed Emolyn. 

“ Oh, tell me what !” eagerly responded the woman. 

“ You can take in the letters that the postman will 
bring you for me, and you can fetch them to me quietly 
as you have done this.” 


Emolyn' s Woe . 


53 


“ Oh, with all my heart, Miss Emolyn !” 

“Thanks, 1 will depend on you, dear soul.” 

“ Indeed you may, Miss Emolyn.” 

“ I am sure of it, but now tell me about your own 
affairs.” 

The poor woman then began to talk of her husband, 
who fortunately had now as much work as any day- 
laborer could do, or “ jump at,” as his wife expressed 
it ; and of her children, who were happily all now well ; 
and of her own lady customers, who paid her rather 
more liberally than heretofore. 

In the midst of these revelations, Melpomene 
returned to the room bringing in a small breakfast-tray 
laden with a cup of tea and a plate of toast. 

Then the laundress arose and took leave. 

Pony would have persuaded Emolyn to keep her bed 
all day, and, indeed, the girl’s state of weakness seemed 
to require her to do so ; but she had to answer Lonny’s 
letter, and to post hers that day, so it might reach him 
before his ship should sail. 

She got out of bed and dressed herself, with Pony’s 
assistance. 

And then, as soon as she had taken her tea and toast, 
she sent her attendant out of the room and sat down 
to write to Lonny. 

Her letter was but the reiteration of all her former 
arguments why she could not face Commander and 
Mrs. Bruce with a confession of the secret marriage. 
But she promised that she would keep his letter to his 
father, and, in case of need, present it to him. Then 
giving him love for love, prayers for prayers, and bless- 
ings for blessings, she closed her letter. 

Finally she put on her hat and shawl, slipped out of 
the house, and took her letter to the post-office, where 
she dropped it into the box 


54 


“ Em.” 


The walk had been a long one, so that on her return 
to Green Point she had to go to her room and lie down. 

Three days later than this, she received another 
letter from Lonny Bruce — a letter written on the eve 
of sailing, acknowledging the receipt of hers, expressing 
the deepest regret that she still refused to follow his 
advice in presenting his letter to his father, and seeking 
his mother’s protection ; but still adjuring her to do so 
in case of necessity. He told her that this would be the 
last letter he could send, until on the sea he should 
meet some homeward-bound vessel. And commending 
her to the care of Heaven, he closed it. 

The same day that Emolyn received this letter, she 
heard that Commander Bruce had returned from New 
York, after having seen his son off on his voyage. 

Now Emolyn felt that her lover-husband was gone 
indeed beyond her reach, beyond recall, and she sank 
into a state of despondency too deep for tears or 
lamentations. 

A few days passed in this way. 

She had no father, mother, sister, brother, or friend. 
So, in the utter loneliness and dreariness of her heart, 
she even stooped to try to conciliate her scornful enemy, 
Mrs. Warde. 

It was on the fourth day after the sailing of the Eagle , 
when the major’s widow and the general’s child were 
seated at the breakfast-table — Mrs. Warde, silent, con- 
temptuous, and very depressing ; Emolyn Wyndeworth, 
lonely, desolate, longing for kindly companionship — 
when the latter said : 

“ I understand that my cousin Belinda is coming here 
to spend the summer holidays. 1 have never seen her, 
but I shall be very glad to see her.” 

“ Then you will be disappointed. Miss Warde can 
never enter these doors while you remain an inmate 


Emolyn' s Woe. 


55 


of this house,” replied Mrs. Warde, with freezing 
hauteur. 

Emolyn opened her blue eyes wide with amazement. 

“ Why not, Cousin Malvina ?” she naively inquired. 

“ Because I do not consider you a proper compan- 
ion for my daughter,” insolently replied the elder 
woman. 

“ Oh, Cousin Malvina ! Why ?” innocently demanded 
Emolyn. 

“ You know best ! It is a degradation to gentle- 
women, even to enter into the discussion of such sub- 
jects. But I must trouble you, when you have occa- 
sion to speak of myself or my daughter, to call us Mrs. 
or Miss Warde. We decline to be considered as relatives 
of yours'" 

Emolyn made no reply. She longed to be admitted, 
if only once, to the bedside of her paralyzed and insen- 
sible uncle, if only to look upon the face of one who 
loved her. But this longing she knew would never be 
satisfied. 

From this day forth, Mrs. Warde never spoke to 
Emolyn Wyndeworth. 

They met three times a day, at breakfast, dinner, and 
supper ; but the lady of the house, as Malvina Warde 
claimed to be, always maintained a contemptuous 
silence — silently placing the cup of coffee, or the plate 
of meat, upon the salver of the waiter, and allowing 
him to serve it to her enforced companion. 

But Emolyn could not feel all the pangs that were 
thus prepared for her ; because, poor little soul, she had 
anxieties that made her indifferent to these insults, as 
the terrible “ moxo ” makes one insensible to the head- 
ache ! 

For weeks had passed, and months were passing, yet 


56 


“ Em." 


since the letter he had written on the eve of sailing she 
had heard no news of Lonney. 

And, moreover, now, a great danger was threatening 
her, and a great terror growing upon her. 


CHAPTER V. 

emolyn’s danger. 

I stand by the river where both of us stood, 

And there is but one shadow to darken the flood : 

And the path leading to it, where both used to pass, 

Has the step but of one, to take dew from the grass— 

One forlorn since that day. 

The flowers by the margin are many to see, 

For none stoops at my bidding to pluck them for me ; 

The bird in the alder sings loudly and long, 

For my low sound of weeping disturbs not his song. 

As thy vow did that day 1 

E. B. Browning. 

Summer had faded into autumn, and autumn into 
winter, while no change for the better came over the 
household of Green Point. 

Captain Wyndeworth lay, lingering, as so many par- 
alytics do, neither quite living or dying. 

Still Mrs. Warde devoted herself to the invalid, though 
rather to have the captain’s pay coming in than to keep 
the father breathing. 

Still poor Emolyn Bruce paled and wasted under the 
baleful blight of mysterious sorrow, and a yet more 
mysterious terror ! 

Each morning she went her weary way to Susan 


Emolyri s Danger. 


57 


Palmer, with fainter hope, and crept back to her dreary 
home with deeper despair. No letter came from her 
young sailor. 

What could be the meaning of this utter silence ? 

Was Lonney indifferent or inconstant ? 

Was he ill or dead ? 

She could not answer these distracting questions even 
by conjecture. 

A pall of darkness and silence seemed to have fallen 
upon the world, and she panted and gasped under it as 
under a nightmare. 

It is true that she could easily have solved her doubts 
as to her boy’s condition and whereabouts, if she had 
the courage to make simple and natural inquiries. 

Commander Bruce was still a daily visitor to the bed- 
side of his invalid brother officer, and nothing would 
have been more natural than for Emolyn to have asked 
him when he heard from his son, had not the conscious- 
ness of her secret marriage tied her tongue. For so 
great was her fear that anyone should even suspect, not 
to say discover the secret, that she forebore now to ever 
allude to Leonidas Bruce, even in the presence of her 
faithful and beloved “ Pony.” 

Emolyn was, perhaps, morbid on this subject, for she 
was most fatally reserved. 

She used to watch and listen for some chance word 
concerning Lonny or his ship, the Eagle , to drop from 
the lips of Mrs. Warde, or Commander Bruce ; but in 
vain. There was little opportunity of seeing or hearing 
the commander, unless she had pointedly met him at 
the front door and asked him questions ; for on enter- 
ing the house he invariably walked straight up stairs to 
Captain Wyndeworth’s sick room, and in coming down 
again, when his visit was over, he would be attended to 
the door and let out by Mrs. Warde in person. So you 


58 


“ Em. 


see there was no possibility of her hearing from Lonny 
through his father, unless she had stopped him to ask 
questions, which she had not the courage to do. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Warde, in her turn, watched the 
unhappy girl, and smiled sarcastically. Whenever 
Emolyn met one of these sneering grins, she trembled 
with the thought that Mrs. Warde suspected her secret, 
and purposely prevented her from having any conver- 
sation with the old commander beyond the usual “ good- 
morning.” 

Emolyn’s fears did not deceive her. 

Mrs. Warde not only suspected Emolyn’s secret, but 
knew more about it than did the young wife herself. 

Mrs. Warde had pass-keys to every lock in the house, 
and had availed herself of the girl’s daily absence to 
look over every one of her letters and papers, to possess 
herself of some, and to destroy others. 

Some weeks later, Emolyn, wishing to read again 
Lonny’s love-letters, went to seek them. After a long 
and fruitless search, however, she said to herself : 

“ I have hidden them so securely that I cannot even 
find them myself, though I know I shall come across 
them some day while looking for something else. But, 
at any rate, if I cannot find them, no one else can, and 
that is a comfort.” 

Emolyn never once suspected that her locks had been 
violated, her cabinet searched, and her papers purloined 
by her bitterest enemy ; for the girl, though rendered 
so secretive by natural timidity and adverse circum- 
stance, was essentially unsuspicious. 

In the meantime, Mrs. Warde discovered from these 
readings what an utter coward the poor child was, and 
how impossible it would be for her, even under the 
most desperate circumstances, to reveal her real rela- 
tionship to Commander Bruce’s family, unless such rela- 


Emolyn' s Danger. 


59 


tion could be encouraged by daily and friendly conver- 
sation. Therefore it was her plan to keep the com- 
mander and his unknown daughter-in-law as far apart 
and as much estranged as possible. 

Farther than this even, herjbasely-acquired knowledge 
furnished her with tools to dig a pit-fall for the feet of 
Emolyn Bruce. And partly because she hated the girl, 
and wished her ill, and partly because she envied the 
heiress and coveted her estate, Malvina Warde planned 
the destruction of Emolyn Bruce. 

About this time she had engaged, as an assistant in 
her father’s sick room, a nurse called Ann Whitlock, 
whom she had soon discovered to be addicted to pil- 
fering. 

At first Mrs. Warde carefully secured all her drawers 
and closets, with the resolution to discharge the woman 
as soon as she should be able to procure a successor, 
and in the meanwhile to say nothing to Whitlock about 
her small thefts. 

Now, however, she suddenly resolved to entrap this 
woman into her power, and make her the instrument of 
Emolyn Bruce’s ruin and death. 

So she kept the unsuspicious pilferer in her service 
for some little time, praised her for attention to the 
sick man, smiled on her and trusted her. 

One day, while dressing to go down to dinner, she care- 
fully locked up her casket of jewels and put her keys into 
the pocket of her morning wrapper, which she had not 
yet left off. Then, when she changed it for a silk dress, 
she left it lying over the back of the chair, and went out 
of the room, with a great rustling, down the stairs, but, 
before going into the dining-room, she crossed to the rear 
of the house and crept noiselessly up the back stairs and 
stole into a back chamber, and through that silently 


6o 


‘ Em," 


entered the clothes-closet, where she concealed herself 
while she watched the proceedings of the thief. 

Meanwhile, the ensnared pilferer, as soon as she 
heard the rustling footsteps of her mistress die away in 
silence at the lower end of the staircase, carefully 
locked the chamber door, and then proceeded to search 
the pocket of her dressing-gown, whence she drew forth 
the bunch of keys. 

With a frightened look all around her, she went to 
the casket, unlocked it, looked at its contents with 
avaricious eyes for a moment, and eagerly but fearfully 
snatched a heavy gold necklace and locket and slipped 
them into her pocket. Next she hastily picked out a 
set of pearl earrings and brooch, and also a diamond 
ring, which she put with the locket and chain. 

Then she carefully relocked the casket, withdrew the 
key, and went and hoisted a front window, and dropped 
the bunch down into the deep shrubbery beneath, mut- 
tering : 

“ There ! she will think the keys arejnislaid when she 
looks for them ; and, as for me, I can get out and stow 
away these ere things afore the casket can be opened 
and the jewels missed.” 

“ Will you?” hissed the tongue of the serpent Malvina 
Warde, as she darted from her ambush and closed her 
hand upon the pocket of the thief. 

“ Oh, ma’am, for the love of mercy ! — I — was only a 
borrowin’ of these ornimints to wear to — to — a church 
festival — to-morrow mornin’, ma’am, if you — could spare 
me !” stammered the detected sinner, too faint from fear 
to resist the act of her detector, who held a tight grip 
upon the pocket and its contents. 

“You did not mean to steal them?” sneered Mrs, 
Warde, 


Emolyris Danger. 


61 


“ Oh, no, indeed, ma’am !” answered the woman, who 
was as white as death and trembling as with an ague. 

“ Didn’t mean to steal them ? Convince the jury of 
that when they find you guilty of grand larceny. Con- 
vince the judge of that when he sentences you to the 
penitentiary for ten years !” answered the lady. 

“ Oh ! oh, lord ! oh, ma’am ! You wouldn’t ! No, you 
wouldn’t ! Not for this world’s sinful jewels and vani- 
ties and things, you wouldn’t send a poor, lone woman 
to prison !” howled Whitlock, dropping down on the 
floor in abject terror. 

“ Yes, I would, and I will,” grimly retorted Mrs. 
Warde, looking steadily down upon the wretch whom 
she had tempted to crime, so that crime should lay her 
where she now was, a slave in chains at the feet of her 
mistress. 

“Yes, I would, and I will, send you to imprisonment 
and hard labor in the penitentiary for ten years, and 
that will be for life withy^, for you will not live through 
all that so long,” jruthlessly replied the lady. 

The woman began to howl and weep, to beg and pray, 
to roll on the floor and to grovel at the feet of her mis- 
tress. 

“ Be silent ! If Captain Wyndeworth should be 
shocked out of his repose by your noise, that shock will 
certainly kill him, and that will not improve your cir- 
cumstances. Rise now, and attend to me.” 

“ Oh, lord ! Oh, ma’am ! Oh, have mercy on a poor, 
lone creetur, who meant no harm !” cried the woman, 
struggling up to her feet. 

“ Hush, and listen. I certainly would, and I certainly 
will , send you to the State prison for grand larceny — ” 

“ Oh ! Oh, lord ! Oh !” recommenced the howling 
wretch. 


62 


' Em. 


“ Silence, and hear me out !” cried Mrs. Warde, with 
a fierce stamp. 

“ Oh, yes, ma’am! Yes, I am at your mercy! I am 
at your mercy!” wept the woman, wringing her hands. 

“ I will punish you, as I said, unless you swear to 
obey me in all things henceforth !” said Mrs. Warde, 
grimly, concluding her interrupted sentence. 

“ I will be your servant and slave forever and ever, 
soul and body, goodness knows I will, if so be you won’t 
bring me to court for this and send me to prison !” 

“ If you will keep your promise — be my servant, soul 
and body, not forever and ever, but so long as I shall 
require you — no harm shall come to you. Moreover, if 
you do this, when you are permitted to leave my ser- 
vice, you shall be promoted to a better one !” 

“ Oh, ma’am, I will ! I will !” 

“ Now swear that you will do so.” 

The woman obeyed and took an awful oath, by 
which, in binding herself to the will of Malvina Warde, 
she sold her soul to the arch fiend. And then the poor 
wretch fell to howling and weeping again. 

“ Be quiet now, and give me back my jewels ! Not 
a word to anyone of what has passed ; but remember 
that I hold your character and your liberty in my 
power, and that on the slightest hesitation on your 
part to do my will, I shall deliver you up to justice. 
Remember that I have bought you, and you are mine, 
soul and body !” 

And this was true, only because the poor wretch, in 
her detected guilt, her terror, perplexity and utter igno- 1 
ranee, could not know that Mrs. Warde had threatened 
much more than she would, afterwards, under the cir- 
cumstances, have the power to accomplish. 

Malvina Warde, having entrapped the thief, recov- 
ered her jewels and gained a reckless instrument of 


Emolyn s Danger . 


63 


evil, coolly and patiently bided her time and opportun- 
ity to use this instrument for the destruction of 
Emolyn. 

That day, at dinner, her smiles were even more than 
usually sarcastic, as her cold, cruel, black eyes slowly 
measured Emolyn from head to foot, noting the care- 
less dishabille of shawl and wrapper in which she had 
come to the table ; but she uttered no rebuke, asked no 
question, made no comment. Her hatred could afford 
to be silent now. 

And how was it with her proposed victim ? 

Emolyn daily grew worse in mind and body. Her 
situation was in every respect desperate. Though a 
wedded wife, she could not, for very cowardice, claim 
her position as such ; though a wealthy heiress, she 
could not obtain a dollar of money to supply her com- 
monest need, for since her old guardian’s paralysis, he 
could sign no checks for her, and she could draw no 
funds ; and Mrs. Warde would have seen her perish 
sooner than have advanced her the price of a pair of 
shoes. 

So, little by little, Emolyn had sold her few trinkets 
to supply her most urgent needs and those of the poor 
whom she still wished to succor. She had done this 
through the agency of Mrs. Palmer, who disposed of 
the trinkets among the people for whom she washed. 
But the price realized from them was but small, for 
Emolyn had fewer jewels than other young girls of 
smaller fortune, for she never spent much on her per- 
sonal adornments, because she took so much more 
pleasure in spending on the poor. 

But now, with all her wealth and all her benevolence, 
she had no money in hand either to spend on herself or 
to give to others ; no smallest jewel left (except her 
sacred wedding-ring, which she wore on a ribbon 


64 


“ Em. 


around her neck, and concealed in her bosom), that she 
could sell for money. 

Yet not for herself did she regret this ; for ah ! she 
had heavier troubles to bear than the temporary want 
of motiey ! But for her poor she did lament it ! 

When in the beginning of the winter, John Palmer 
got out of work, and his wife’s customers fell off, and 
the humble household began to show the signs of 
want, Emolyn’s tender heart ached for the sufferings 
she was so powerless fp alleviate ! 

But soon after this a crushing blow fell upon the 
fated girl ! Early in the new year she missed the daily 
visits of Commander Bruce, and soon learned from the 
gossip of the servants that he was staying at home, 
prostrated by a great sorrow. 

In a word, the fate of the missing ship Eagle — long 
missing, though Emolyn had not known it — was now 
ascertained beyond all doubt. 

She had been wrecked on the coast of Barbary. Her 
hulk had been discovered and identified by the United 
States ship-of-war Xyphias, of the Mediterranean squad- 
ron, and all her officers and crew were supposed to 
have perished. 


CHAPTER VI. 

NO ESCAPE. 

A hopeless darkness gathers o’er her fate. — B aillie. 

Emolyn heard these terrible events as though she 
heard them not. She made no comment, gave no 
sign ; bat from that day her despair deepened into 
stupor, from which nothing could rouse her, though 


No Escape. 


65 


there were moments when her spirit would break from 
this dark trance as suddenly, as fearfully as lightning 
blazes from the blackest cloud. 

Melpomene, anxiously watching her young mistress, 
became greatly alarmed. 

“ Oh, my darling Miss Emolyn ! What has come 
over you ? Tell your own Pony, dear ? Tell her, no 
matter what it is !” she prayed, when one day at the 
dinner-hour, she discovered the girl, still sitting in her 
chamber, clothed in her wrapper and shawl, and crouch- 
ing down in a low chair before the fire. 

For many minutes her young mistress did not even 
notice the question ; but when it was repeated and 
pressed, Emolyn answered, stupidly : 

“ Nothing !” 

“ Nothing — oh, Miss Emolyn ! You scarcely ever eat, 
nor sleep ; you never speak unless spoken to, and you 
never dress yourself, but you sit here in your room, in 
your wrapper and shawl, day after day, with your head 
half the time down in your lap. Is that for nothing, 
darling Miss Emolyn ? Oh, tell me ! trust me ! confide 
in me, Miss Emolyn, for your own sake, pray, pray do !” 
cried the woman, falling on her knees before the crouch- 
ing girl and bursting into tears. 

“ Hush, Pony !” suddenly cried Emolyn, flashing out 
from her dark cloud. “ Hush crying. / don’t cry. 
And if I don’t cry, no one in the wide world has a right 
to do so.” 

And then she grew darker, gloomier, more stupid 
than before ; nor to any of Melpomene’s prayers, tears, 
or expostulations would she utter one word. 

But did the faithful creature give over her efforts to 
comfort and perhaps rescue her forlorn charge ? 

Not at all. 


66 


“ Em." 


On another day she found her standing in the middle 
of the room gazing upon the carpet, as if entranced. 

“ Miss Emolyn,” said the woman, softly approaching 
her. 

The girl started as violently as if she had received a 
shock, exclaiming frantically : 

“ Oh, Pony ! Something terrible is coming upon me ! 
I know it ! I see it ! 1 feel it ! Some terrible fate is 

approaching ! Oh, Pony ! let us fly from this horrible 
house !” 

“ So we will, my child !” said the nurse, as tenderly, 
as soothingly as she would have spoken to “ humor ” a 
sick babe. 

“ No, we can’t either ! I have got no money ! I have 
got no friends ! I have got no place to go to ! No, I 
must stay here and let the mountain fall on me and 
crush me !”* she wildly exclaimed. 

“ Miss Emolyn, there is times when I think you is 
insane. Oh, my darling, tell me and I will make oath 
on the blessed word never to tell no one else, if that 
will satisfy you ! Oh, tell your poor Pony what has 
turned your brain, my darling !” 

“ I cannot ! Oh, I cannot ! I could die first ! But I 
could tell my mother if she were living ! Oh, my 
mother ! Oh, my mother ! Oh, my mother !” cried 
the desolate child, bursting into tears — the first tears 
she had shed in many months. 

Melpomene was glad to see this as a good sign ; but 
it proved a fallacious one on this occasion ; for the 
paroxysm passed and left her, as her outbreaks always 
did, weaker and worse than before. 

“ Miss Emolyn, dear, if you want to go away for 
peace and safety, I’ll sell the last rag of clothes I own, 
’cept ’tis what I have on my back, and I’ll take you, 


No Escape . 


67 


whether or no, wherever you want to go, if I’m killed 
for it the next minute !” said Melpomene, fervently. 

“ Oh, no, no, Pony ! That would only get you into 
trouble and do me no good. No,” — with a sigh — “let 
the deluge come ! I deserve it !” 

“ Oh, Miss Emolyn ! Don’t say that ! You deserve 
to be happy because you are good ! You deserve the 
garden of Eden and not Noah’s flood !” cried poor 
Pony. 

But her unhappy mistress had relapsed into a dark 
and sullen mood, and no more words could be drawn 
from her. 

At another time Pony tried to arouse her beloved 
foster-child to some interest in her neighbors. So one 
morning she said : 

“ Do you know, Miss Emolyn, darling, that old Priest 
Ned has gone to his heavenly home ?” 

“ That is well,” answered Emolyn. But when Melpo- 
mene would have given all the details of the old her- 
mit’s death, she found she had lost her listener — Emo- 
lyn had sunk into lethargy again as a sword sinks in its 
sheath. 

On another morning, Melpomene said to her : 

“ I’m sorry to say it, Miss Emolyn, but poor Palmer’s 
folks is in great trouble. He’s down with the rheuma- 
tism, and she’s got so bad now, she can’t wash no 
more, which they do say as she’ll have to go into the 
Women’s Hospital, when her time comes, anyway !” 

The poor, half-crazed girl lifted her pale face and 
perplexed eyes. The call of suffering reached her sym- 
pathies through all her own stupor of despair. 

“ Pony ! take my silk dress and velvet mantle and 
carry them to a second-hand clothes shop, and sell them 
for what you can get, and give the money to poor Susan 
Palmer.” 


68 


“ Em'.' 


“ But, Miss Emolyn, my darling, if I do that you will 
not have a single decent thing left to go out in the 
street with,” Pony expostulated, glad to think that she 
had aroused her mistress at last. 

“ I do not want to go out in the street : and — their 
need is greater than mine !” said Emolyn, and then she 
withdrew within herself, as a turtle in its shell, and 
could not be drawn out again. 

Her stupor was now so deep and so long that Pony 
was not sorry when one night she had a piece of really 
startling news to tell her. 

“ What do you think, Miss Emolyn ?” she began, 
while combing out her pet’s long, nut-brown hair — 
“ what do you think ? Mrs. Commander Bruce is dead ! 
She has been failing ever since she heard of the wreck 
of the Eagle with Master Lonny on board, you know, 
and last night she died. And they do say as the com- 
mander has applied for sailing orders because he can’t 
get over his wife’s death, staying here.” 

Emolyn made no comment. 

“ Miss Emolyn, did you hear me say as Mrs. Com- 
mander Bruce was dead ?” 

“Yes — what a privilege it is to die ! Oh, life is ter- 
rible ! But death, Pony ? — Life is a disease of which death 
cures us ! Life is a penal servitude from which death re- 
lieves us ? Life is a sentence of execution from which 
death pardons us ! Oh, when shall you and I be par- 
doned and released and cured, Pony ?” wearily sighed 
the girl. 

“ Life is very sweet, Miss Emolyn,” said the woman. 

“You think so; but it is your delusion?” persisted 
Emolyn. 

“Ah me ! I’d most as lief see her in her coffin as out 
of her mind !” thought Pony to herself. 

She had quite come to the conclusion that her young 


No Escape. 


69 


mistress was slightly insane, as well as greatly dis- 
tressed. 

After this little flash of intelligence, Emolyn sank 
into herself as the flame of an expiring lamp sinks into 
its socket. 

Early in March the long expected blow fell on the 
^household at Green Point. The long-suffering Captain 
Wynde worth, during one of the stormiest nights in the 
month of the year, fell into a sweet sleep from which 
the never awoke again in this world. 

It was Pony who had to break the news to Emolyn. 

She did this when she went into the young lady’s 
chamber to wait on her in the morning. 

“Well, my poor dear, the will of Heaven be done ! 
You know your poor uncle was quite a very old man, 
and has been a very great sufferer for most a year past. 
So what could we expect, honey ?” began the poor 
creature, in the best way she knew how. 

“ Is he gone, then ?” inquired Emolyn, in so low a 
tone that Pony scarcely heard her. 

“ Which you was a saying, honey ?” vaguely inquired 
Pony. “ Which you was asking — ” 

“ Is he gone ?” 

“ Home — yes, honey. Last night, ‘bout twelve o’clock. 
Didn’t you hear the wind a blowin’ like it would rip off 
the roof and blow down the walls ? He never heard it. 
It never ’sturbed him, honey.” 

“ Nothing will ever disturb him more-- not even the 
miserable fate of his poor niece ! Happy uncle ! Now 
let the deluge come !” said Emolyn, in a quiet tone. 

“ Oh, honey ! I do wish I could see you cry, or take 
on, or do something natural like !” sighed poor Pony, 
who was shocked at the seeming want of feeling in her 
young mistress. 

But Emolyn was much farther gone in the stupor of 


70 


“ Em. y 


despair than she ever had been before. Emolyn did not 
put on mourning for her uncle. Indeed she could not 
have done so even if she had been disposed, for she had 
neither money in her purse, nor accounts at any store ; 
nor could she have brought herself to ask Mrs. Warde 
for an advance, or to ask any merchant for credit. 

She attended the funeral, which took place on the 
third day after the death, when the remains of the aged 
naval officer were interred in the cemetery with all the 
sacred ceremonies of the church and all the glorious 
honors of war. 

And during all the solemn pageantry of death, poor 
Emolyn acted the part of mute more naturally and per- 
fectly than any professional and paid mute ever did. 

All who saw her that day remarked her look of dumb 
despair. Those who had known her well in brighter 
days said among themselves : 

“ That girl seems quite stupefied with sorrow for the 
death of her old uncle.” 

“ Yet she has not on a scrap of mourning,” observed 
some others. 

“ Ah ! when the heart is oppressed with grief, it cares 
little for the external show.” 

These critics were both right and wrong. Emolyn’s 
heart was indeed too heavily bowed down to care for 
any of the conventional exhibitions of life ; but it was 
not with sorrow for her uncle’s death ; it was with trouble 
deeper than death could bring. She felt the approach 
of some overwhelming fate, without the power of resist- 
ance or flight, without the knowledge of into what 
iabyss of ruin it was about to hurl her. 

By the death of Captain Wyndeworth the occupation 
of Whitlock, the sick-nurse and Mrs. Warde’s sworn 
slave, was gone ; but the woman remained in the house, 


No Escape. 




tacitly waiting orders from that lady, who at length 
condescended to give them. 

It was about a week after the funeral that Malvina 
Warde sent for the nurse to come to her room, and 
when closeted with her, said : 

“ Do you know that your time has been up here for 
several days ?” 

“ Yes, ma’am, but I was staying your pleasure to 
keep me, or to send me away,” humbly replied the 
woman. 

“ I believe you were employed in the Woman’s 
Hospital before you came into my service ?” 

“ Yes, ma’am, and left it to come to you, much ag’in 
the will of the doctors, who wanted me to stay,” replied 
the nurse, trying to make interest for herself with Mrs. 
Warde. 

“ Ah, indeed ! That seems very kind of you. May I 
ask why you favored me with the preference ?” sarcas- 
tically inquired the lady. 

“Well, ma’am,” began the nurse, fearing to tell a 
falsehood to a sharp woman who had her in her power, 
“ I did prefer service in private families, because, as a 
rule, the work is lighter and the living is better, let 
alone the wages being higher, than in hospitals.” 

“ I like your candor. Now, however, that your duties 
are over here, I advise your return to the Woman’s 
Hospital.” 

“ And you won’t tell on me, and make me lose my 
place, ma’am ?” whimperingly inquired the poor 
wretch. 

“ Not if you obey my orders and do my will ; but if 
you refuse to do so, I shall not only ‘ tell on you’ and 
make you lose your situation, but I shall prosecute you 
at law for the theft of my jewelry, and send you to the 


72 


“ Em. 


— — T " 

State prison for at least ten years,” said Mrs. Warde, 
grimly. 

The trembling culprit held down her head and made 
no answer. 

“ I do not think, however, that you will refuse to 
obey me,” added Mrs. Warde, with a grim smile. 

“ Tell me what you want me to do, ma’am, and I will 
do it, if mortal power can,” faltered the woman. 

‘‘That is it! If it be in ‘ mortal power.’ The ser- 
vice I require of you depends for its success on fortui- 
tous circumstances ; but an effort shall be made, for 
success will be worth all it costs. I will tell you what 
you must do in the first place, however. Go back to 
your old post in the Woman’s Hospital.” 

“ Will you recommend me, ma’am ?” 

Mrs. Warde laughed harshly as she replied : 

“ Yes, I recommend you to go there, but I could not 
possibly recommend the hospital to engage you ; nor 
do you need that I should do so. The faculty there 
think they know you. Let them think it still, until you 
deceive me , then they shall know you.” 

“ I will never deceive you, ma’am,” faltered the 
nurse. 

“ I do not think that you will ! Well, after you are 
reinstated in your old place, you must slip out and come 
to me secretly every night, to learn my wishes.” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

“And you must never mention to any one where you 
are going. You must never breathe my name, or refer 
to me in the least particular, as you value your 
liberty.” 

“ I will do in all things as you tell me, ma’am.” 

“ I think you will. Now that is all for to-night : 
pack up and go, and be sure to be here to-morrow 
night, about this hour.” 


No Escape . 


7.5 


This miserable slave of Satan left the house the same 
evening, recovered her situation at the Woman’s Hos- 
pital the next morning, and returned secretly to Green 
Point the next night, when she had a private interview 
with Mrs. Warde, in which she received that lady’s 
further instructions. 

One day near the last of March, poor Emolyn roused 
from her frozen apathy to ask Melpomene : 

“ Pony, do you know anything about Susan Palmer ? 
She has not been to see me so long !” 

“ Lor’, honey, Mrs. Palmer done went inter the Wim- 
min’s Horsepittal yesterday, which it was crowded so 
full that they couldn’t take her before, and she’s so 
near her time, too. They had to wait till the marine’s 
wife was well enough to be sent away. Honey, they do 
say as there’s more than fifty poor women and babies in 
that hospital now. But lor’, I reckon that can’t be so, 
though the times is awful hard this winter. Thanks be 
to goodness, the winter’s most over now,” observed 
Melpomene. 

Emolyn had relapsed into silence, and sat as usual, 
wrapped in a large shawl, on a low chair before the fire 
in her room, with her head bent down upon her lap, and 
her face covered with her hands. After a pause she 
spoke again : 

“Where are the poor children of this mother?” 

“ Home ’long o’ their daddy, honey, and he so crip- 
pled up with the rheumatiz that he ain’t able to do 
nothing but stay home and take care o’ them ; and the 
church he ’longs to ’lows him a dollar a week for vittals 
and fire- wood,” replied the woman. 

But Emolyn might have been asleep or dead for any 
notice she took of this information, either by word or 
gesture. After a few minutes, however, she startled 


74 


“ Em. 


Pony, who was then thinking of something else, by say- 
ing: 

“ Listen to what I say to you. Gather up all my 
dresses, shawls, bonnets and laces and take them to the 
second-hand clothing store and sell them for what they 
will bring. Then take the money to Palmer for his 
children. They cannot live on a dollar a week." 

“ Goodness gracious me alive, Miss Emolyn ! If I go 
and do that you won’t have a rag left you to put on !” 
expostulated Melpomene. 

“ I have my wrappers and under-clothing. That is 
all I shall ever want again, Pony. Now, do not disobey 
me, in my misery, but go and execute my orders, as if 
I were in my father’s halls at Wynde Slopes, with all 
its revenues at my command, instead of being the poor 
wreck that I am,’’ said Emolyn, in a voice as firm as it 
was sad. 

“ Miss Emolyn, it breaks my heart to hear you speak 
so," sobbed the woman. 

“ Hush, this moment, Pony ! I do not cry ! and if 1 
do not, then nobody on earth has a right to shed tears. 
Go and do as I bid you ! Do not defy me because I am 
penniless and helpless with all my wealth ! Go and sell 
my dresses and take the money to Palmer. The chil- 
dren must not be left to suffer." 

Melpomene, with many shakes of her pretty head, 
went and obeyed about half her young lady’s order — 
that is to say, she took about half the articles from the 
wardrobes of her mistress, and disposed of them as she 
had been directed to do, afterwards devoting the price 
she had received for them to relieve the necessities of 
the needy Palmer children. 

A few days after this, Emolyn suddenly said to her. 

“ Pony, I want money ! I must have a dollar ! I 
must have a dollar !’’ 


No Escape . 


75 


“ Oh, Miss Emolyn ! We have got nothing else to 
sell ! Why not ask Mrs. Warde ? She could not be 
such a demon as to refuse you !” 

“ What ! ask her , who never volunteered to advance 
funds to give me a decent black dress to attend her 
father’s and my uncle’s funeral ? I would see her in per- 
dition first ! I would even sell this first !” she said, de* 
taching from her neck a black ribbon, with a heavy plain 
gold ring upon it. 

“ Why, that must have been your mother's wedding- 
ring, Miss Emolyn ?” 

“ No ; but it was a keepsake given to me by a dear 
friend, who is gone. What is its value, do you think, 
Pony ?” 

“ This heavy, guinea gold ring must be worth about 
ten dollars, Miss Emolyn,” replied the woman, as she 
received the ring from her mistress and weighed it in 
her own hand. 

“ Then perhaps you will not be obliged to sell it. If 
it is worth ten or even eight dollars, you can surely get 
an advance of one dollar on it from a pawnbroker.” 

“ Yes, Miss, I could. But, oh, that the daughter of 
General Wyndeworth and the heiress of Wynde Slopes 
should be forced to pawn her ring !” 

“ ‘ There are worse disasters at sea,’ Pony ! — yes , and 
elsewhere too /” muttered Emolyn in reply. “ But now 
put on your bonnet and shawl and go pawn that ring 
and bring me back a dollar as quickly as you can.” 

Pony sighed deeply and left the room to prepare for 
her long walk. In two hours she returned from her 
errand, bringing the required sum and the pawnbroker’s 
ticket. 

Later in the afternoon of the same day, while Melpo- 
mene was down in the kitchen, eating her dinner, 


76 


‘ Em. 


Emolyn Bruce wrapped herself in a long, black cloth 
cloak, drew its hood over her head, crept noiselessly 
down the stairs and left the house. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A CRISIS. 

So farewell hope and with hope, farewell fear ; 

Farewell remorse ; all good to me is lost — 

All hope is lost of my return ; what worse ? 

For where no hope is left, is left no fear. — Milton. 

Meanwhile Melpomene, having finished her supper at 
the kitchen table, drew her stool to the chimney-corner 
and sat brooding in silence over the condition of her 
young mistress. 

Within a few weeks past, slight suspicions of the real 
state of the case had troubled Pony’s simple mind ; but 
she had very promptly dismissed these intrusive doubts, 
as traitors to her lady ; yet within a few days past they 
had returned with renewed strength, and refused to be 
silent ; within the last few hours they had confirmed 
themselves into settled convictions. 

Pony, though now thirty-five years of age, had never 
been a wife or mother ; therefore perhaps the slowness 
of her mind to discover the truth concerning her un- 
happy young lady. 

Now, however, having done so at last, she felt no 
hesitation as to her proper line of action. 

She would speak to her young lady on the subject, 
however distressing and humiliating such a discussion 
might be to them both. She would warn her of the 


A Crisis. 


77 


danger into which she was drifting, the precipice over 
which she might be plunged ; the yawning abyss of 
ruin below, into which she might fall ; and she would 
save her, if possible, even at the risk of her own liberty, 
or life ! She would do this at once, while her courage 
was screwed up “ to the sticking point.” 

So, rising and leaving her fellow-servants chattering 
like a flock of magpies over some gossip of the day, she 
hastily ascended the three flights of stairs that led from 
the basement to the third floor, on which was Emolyn’s 
apartment. 

She entered hurriedly and found the room as she had 
left it, dimly lighted by the wood-fire, which the chilly 
evenings of early spring still rendered necessary ; but 
the low chair on the rug, upon which she had expected 
to find the hapless girl crouching, as usual, was empty. 

That slight circumstance did not at first awaken any 
fresh anxiety in the breast of Pony. She merely 
thought that perhaps her young lady had gone into the 
little dressing-room adjoining, and would soon return. 

So Pony sat down on a low cushion in the chimney 
corner, to await Emolyn’s reappearance. 

She remained there about twenty minutes, which 
seemed to her two hours, and then she got up and 
opened the door of the dressing-room, which she found 
empty, then of a wardrobe room, which contained noth- 
ing but clothing, and very little of that. 

Pony groaned : 

“ I never is right down easy in my own mine when 
that chile is outen my sight ! I is allers thinking what 
she might be tempted to do in her ’stress ! So many 
cases as I’ve heerd tell of like hern ! But she sha’n’t 
keep her secret to herself a preying on her mine, and a 
temptin’ her to her ’struction, one day longer, not if I 
knows Pony Pollard ! Now where can dat poor gall be 


78 


“ Em. 


gone to ? Not to ole missis’ room, dat’s certain ! She 
jes’ as soon go and poke her head into de fire ! Maybe 
she’s gone down into de parlor, cold, dark, lonesome ole 
place ; make’s a body’s teeth chatter only to think of it ; 
but I must go look after my chile, all de same !” con- 
cluded Melpomene, as she opened the chamber-door, 
hurried down the passage and down the three pairs of 
stairs, and into the dismal, dreary and deserted drawing- 
room. 

It was as dark as pitch, but Pony groped her way to 
a match stand, struck a light and lighted a wax candle 
in a branch of a mantel cliandelabra, which partly 
illumined the room. 

But no sign of Emolyn’s presence was to be seen. 

She next took the candle from its resting-place and 
explored the apartment, calling softly on the name of 
her mistress, but a few minutes’ investigation convinced 
her that Emolyn was not to be found there. 

Then a great fear fell upon her. 

“ The Lord ’a’ mercy upon me, where is that chile ? 
Oh ! if it should be a crowner’s quest to-morrow, and a 
found drowned, or something !” she exclaimed, as she 
ran out of the drawing-room, and with the courage of 
despair, flew up stairs to Mrs. Warde’s room to brave 
the lioness in her lair. 

She found the lady seated before a bright coal fire, 
beside a table upon which stood an Astral lamp. 

Mrs. Warde laid down the book she had been read- 
ing and looked up frowningly. 

“ If you please, ma’am, I have took the liberty to 
come to you about Miss Emolyn,” said the alarmed 
woman. 

“ Ah !” aspirated the lady, and her black eyes, 
blacker than the deep mourning-dress she wore, ffxed 


A Crisis. 


79 


themselves keenly, searchingly on the speaker’s face — 
“ what about her ? Nothing good, I dare to say !” 

“ I can’t find her anywhere. I’m afraid she has gone 
out,” whimpered Pony, ready to cry with grief and 
terror. 

“ Quite likely. 1 always did suspect her of being a 
night-walker,” sneered Mrs. Warde. 

“Madam !” indignantly exclaimed Melpomene, aston- 
ished and enraged out of all her usual fear of Mrs. 
Warde. 

“ But we can’t keep the house open all night on her 
account. Tell Philip to close the doors and windows 
immediately,” coolly continued the lady. 

“I shall do no such thing !” muttered Pony to her- 
self, as she swung out of the room and ran down 
stairs. 

There in the hall her terrors came to an abrupt end, 
for there she met Emolyn face to face. 

Emolyn, who had just been let in by the hall-foot- 
man, flushed, flurried, but radiant, defiant, triumphant, 
rushed past her maid and flew up the stairs towards 
her own room. 

Pony, delighted to see her in safety again, but utterly 
bewildered at the transformation she had undergone^ 
gazed after her, muttering : 

“Well ! if that chile hasn’t gone stark, staring leap- 
ing mad, I dunno a fool from a genus, that’s all ?” 

Then Pony slowly followed her mistress. 

When she reached the third floor front room, she 
found Emolyn, already disrobed of her cloak and 
hood, standing before the dressing-bureau, apparently 
engaged in cautiously concealing something in the 
bosom of her gown. 

“ Oh, Miss ’Lyn, you did give me such a scare ! 
Where in de world has you been, honey, this time o’ 


8o 


“ Em. 


night ?” inquired Pony, sinking exhausted upon her 
foot-stool. 

“ Been to seek my fortune, Pony ! good Pony ! and 
see, I have found it ! You gave me a dollar, did you 
not ? Well, I made the best investment I ever made in 
my life, for I have bought peace, safety, liberty, and 
escape from my foes. I got what I wanted for twenty- 
five cents. Here is seventy-five cents left. What riches 
it seems, Pony, doesn’t it ? And you may have it all to 
get your shoes mended, or buy a new pair of hose ; for 
you are about as barefooted as I am, Pony !” exclaimed 
the girl, with a reckless gayety unlike herself, as she 
forced the change of her last dollar into Melpomene’s 
hand. 

“ Oh, Miss Emolyn ! Miss Emolyn ! what ever have 
you been and bought ?” whimpered poor Pony, as her 
hand closed upon the silver. 

“ Never you mind, Pony. Curiosity was fatal to 
Mother Eve and Bluebeard’s wives, so take warning 
and don’t ask questions,” recklessly replied Emolyn. 

4< I do believe it’s likker, and she’s drank half of it. 
Poor chile ! Poor, dear chile ! But I don’t smell no 
likker, so it can’t be that.” 

But she put no more questions to Emolyn, seeing that 
it would be useless to do so in the girl’s present mood. 

“ I don’t know what the chile has been at. No, Lord 
knows, ef it was the last word I had to speak, I don’t 
know what the chile has been doing to herself to-night. 
It ain’t strong drink, I know ; but she ain’t in her right 
senses, now that is certain ; so I must put off talking to 
her till to-morrow. I ’spose that will be time enough.” 
sighed Pony, as she watched her young mistress, who 
now threw herself into an easy-chair and leaned back. 

“ Go to bed, Pony !” at length said Emolyn, very 
peremptorily. 


A Crisis. 


81 


“And leave you by yourself, and you not well!” 
pleaded the faithful creature. 

“ I am better than I have been for months, Pony. I 
am well and happy because I have means of escape. 
Go to bed when I tell you.” 

“ Let me help you to undress, Miss Emolyn,” persisted 
the woman. 

“ Now when did I ever require you to help me to 
undress, you foolish old Pony ?” 

“ Not for a good many months, Miss Emolyn, to be 
sure. Not since that night when you took on so about 
Marse Lonny Bruce going away.” 

“ Ah J" cried the girl, as if she had received a sudden 
stab. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to hurt you, honey — I didn’t ! ” 
moaned the woman. 

“ Will you obey me, when I order you to go to bed, 
Pony, or will you turn on me and defy me, because every- 
one else has gone from me, and I have no friend left in 
the world ?” bitterly broke forth the girl. 

“ Oh, Miss Emolyn, I will go ! I will leave you now, 
and talk to you to-morrow. Good-night, my chile ! 
Good-night, and may the Lord keep you and bless you 
to-night and always !” said the woman, mournfully as 
she went and raised the hand of her hapless young mis- 
tress to her lips, and then turned and slowly left the 
room. 

After a few minutes Emolyn arose and bolted both of 
the doors, and then drew from her bosom a small vial, 
not larger than her own forefinger, but filled to the stop- 
per with a dark-brown liquid. She held it up between 
her eyes and the wax candles that stood burning in the 
brackets each side her dressing-glass, and she looked 
at it, with a strange, grim smile, muttering to herself : 


82 


“ Em." 


“ To carry pure death in an ear-ring, a casket, 

A signet, a fan mount, a filagree basket ” — 

or even in such a little wee wine bottle as this ! Now 
I am armed to meet my fate ; here is my shield against 
all blows, my refuge from all foes, my cure from all ills. 
DEATH ! I do not fear death, I never did. I fear life ! 
I do not fear the Lord, for I know that He is Love. I 
fear men and women / And, like the old Scotch Coven- 
antor of the story, 4 I would rather trust my soul with the 
Lord than my body with these devils !’ So lay you here, 
little vial — little friend — little deliverer — until the last 
hour comes, then you must save me from something 
worse than death — from the eyes of hateful women and 
scornful men !” 

And so saying, this miserable girl, insane from long 
and lonely brooding over misfortunes but half under- 
stood, deposited the bottle within the folds of her under- 
dress, that, night or day, it might be at hand. 

Then she undressed and went to bed. 

Wearied from her long walk, she soon fell asleep, and 
for the first time, in many weeks, slept through the 
night. 

Not so her faithful Melpomene, who lay awake, devis- 
ing plans how to save her beloved young mistress, un- 
til morning dawned and the sun rose. 

Then Pony got up and put on her clothes and went 
into her young lady’s room. 

“ I shall not rise this morning, Pony. I am very, very 
tired. Perhaps they will let you bring me a cup of tea 
to my bedside,” said Emolyn languidly. 

“ When you say ‘ they,’ you mean Mrs. Mai., for no- 
body in the house would object to your having anything 
you want but that she- wolf, Miss Emolyn ; and whether 
she does or not you shall have your cup of tea ! Lord 


A Crisis . 


83 


forgive me ! that ’oman makes me feel wickeder than 
ever I thought I could be ! Why, chile, I feel as if I’d 
jes’ as lief kill her as look at her ; yes, and a heap liefer, 
too ; for I can’t abide to look at her, and that is the 
Lord’s truth !” muttered Pony as she left the room on 
her errand. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A PLAN. 

What remains when hope has filed ? — Campbell, 

In a short time Pony returned, bearing a little tray, 
upon which was arranged a dainty little cup of tea and 
a delicate round of toast. 

Emolyn partook of both, and then lay back on her 
pillow as if refreshed. 

Pony took the tray with its empty little service and 
carried it out to the hall, where she left it for the pres- 
ent on a side-table. Then she returned and seated her- 
self beside the bed, determined that she would break 
the subject that so oppressed her faithful heart to Emo- 
lyn herself. 

She hemmed and ha’ed and paused, then she offered 
up a short, silent prayer for help, and began : 

“ Miss Emolyn, honey, does yer think as there's a 
human being in this whole, wide worle as loves you bet- 
ter’n I do ?” 

“ I know there is not a human being on earth who 
loves me except you, Pony,” mournfully replied the 
desolate girl. 

“ Poor chile ! poor chile ! to have only Pony to love 


8 4 


“ Em. 


you, when all the world would love you if they knew 
you as Pony does ! And, Miss Emolyn, you know I 
love you so that, no matter what should happen, I should 
love you all the same ! And no matter what you might 
do, I should love you still as much as ever ! And if all 
the world was to turn against you, I should love you all 
the more! Miss Emolyn, you believe that, don’t you ?” 

“ Yes, Pony, I do." 

“ Well, then, my dear young lady, if I can help you in 
any way, only tell me how ! You know that I would 
die to save you, don’t you, Miss Emolyn ?" 

“ Oh, Pony, I hope not ! I am not worth dying for !" 

“Yet I would die for you ! It is a poor love that 
would not die for the creature it loves ! Oh, Miss Emo- 
lyn, if you have a secret that weighs upon your heart — 
a secret that you cannot confide to any other one on 
earth, trust it to me, dear Miss Emolyn ! If you want to 
fly away from this place ! — you did once mention to me 
that you did ; but I was stupid then, and didn’t under- 
stand, and so I jes discouraged you — but now I know 
better ; so, if you want to fly away, I will take you 
away, Miss Emolyn ! I have got a brother and a sister- 
in-law as is free and living in Pennsylwany, and I will 
take you to them, where you can hide and be in peace 
until your trouble is over, and even stay until you are 
of age and ready to claim your estate of Wynde Slopes, 
which nobody can never keep you out of, once you live 
to be eighteen years of age, according to your father’s 
will ! Oh, Miss Emolyn ! trust in the only friend you 
have in this wide worle, and follow her advice !” 

“ Pony, do you know what my trouble really is ?" 
muttered the girl, with pallid lips and in a scarcely 
audible voice. 

“ Yes, honey, I knows it all,” answered the weeping 
woman. 


A Crisis. 


85 


“ And can you save me from exposure and blame ?” 
whispered Emolyn, in the same faint and frightened 
tone. 

“ Yes, honey, I can and I will, if I die for it !” 

“ Pony, you must not think evil of me.” 

“ I don’t, honey ! You are nothing but a chile, and 
have no mother !” 

“ But for all that, you must not think evil of me, 
Pony ! Pony, I was a married woman.” 

“ You chile ! you! La !” 

“ Of course I was married, Pony, else how on earth 
could I have been in such trouble ?” 

“Sure enough,” said Melpomene, demurely. “Who 
was your husband, honey ?” 

“ Ah { Pony, who have I ever known ? Not many ! 
Can you not guess, Pony ?” 

“ Well, there ! how dull I have been ! And so it was 
him ?" 

“ Yes, Pony, it was he 1 But there ! hush ! breathe 
not his name, Pony ! He sleeps beneath the waves ! 
The priest who married us is dead ! My marriage cer- 
tificate with all his letters to me, are gone ! Once I 
thought they were only mislaid ! Yesterday I took a 
thorough search, and now I know they have been 
stolen — maliciously stolen. I know it, but cannot prove 
it ! Just as I know that I was married, yet cannot 
prove it !” 

“ That she-wolf has stolen them, then !” exclaimed 
Pony. 

“ Yes, I know she has ; yet I cannot prove it ! And, 
Pony, when I found that out, I made up my mind to 
die rather than live to meet unmerited shame ! Pony, 
last night, when I went out, it was to buy the means of 
self-destruction ! I did buy it, and I have it with me.” 

“ Give it to me ! Give it to me, dear Miss Emolyn ! 


86 


“ Em. 


Give it to me, and let me heave the debblish thing 
away !” excitedly exclaimed the woman. 

“ Don’t be frightened, Pony. It is only laudanum. I 
only meant to use it when all was over, Pony ! for I 
only wished to die myself, not to destroy the innocent 
one, too ! Ah no ! But I will not use it now — now 
that you promise to save me, Pony ! But how will you 
save me ?” 

“ I told you, honey. Run away with you to Pennsyl- 
wany, to my brother and sister-in-law.” 

“ But how will you get the money for travelling 
expenses, poor Pony ?” 

“You have got your mother’s and your father’s por- 
traits in a locket set with diamonds, Miss Emolyn ?” 

“ Ah !” cried the girl in a tone of sharp pain. 

“ I know it would wring your heart to part with it, 
Miss Emolyn ! But you need not part with the por- 
traits, nor even with the locket. You need only give 
me a line to a jeweler, Miss Emolyn, and let me 
take the locket to him and have the diamonds picked 
out and sold, and bring you the money. I don’t know 
much about the price of diamonds, but I reckon as them 
would bring a hundred dollars or so ; leastways, enough 
to carry you and me to Pennsylwany.” 

“Pony, I will give you the locket and the order. 
And oh, Pony, if you can help me through this dire 
distress, you may save not only my life but my soul !” 

“ I’ll do it, Miss Emolyn.” 

“ But, oh ! if my enemy should discover our plan and 
prevent our escape ?” 

“ She slia’n’t do it, Miss Emolyn !” 

“ Ah ! but she has such diabolical cunning ! How 
else should she have purloined my papers, yet seemed 
to have left my locks intact ?” 

“ I dunno, Miss Emolyn, but if she gets over me, she 


A Crisis . 


87 


can get over Ole Nick hisself ! Don’t you be afeard ! 
I am gwine to carry this matter clean through !” 

“ Ah, Heaven grant you may be able to do so, Pony !” 

“ Now, honey, you jes give me that locket, and write 
me that order, and then you keep your bed and stay 
sick to blind all their eyes, until I get the money for us 
to start.” 

“ Ah, Pony, I hate deception !” 

“ Does you feel real, right down well, Miss ’Lyn ?” 

“ No, Heaven knows I do not, either in mind or 
body !” 

“ Then I don’t see where the ’ception comes in ! 
Now you lay here, honey, and I will go down stairs and 
get ready to go to the jeweler’s.” 

“ Yes, but, Pony, hand me my little writing-desk, so 
that I can write the order, while you are preparing 
yourself, so that when you return I shall have it ready 
for you. Oh, Pony, now that I see a way of escape 
easier than death — ” 

“ Oh, hush ! hush ! honey. Don’t mention that 
awful word !” cried the woman, with a shudder, as .she 
placed a little malachite desk on the bed before her 
mistress. 

“ Well, I won’t, you foolish, old Pony ! I was only 
going to say, that now I see an easier way of escape, I 
am all on fire to go ! Pony ! all will be well yet ! 
Don’t you think so ? I haven’t committed any sin to 
be punished for, dear Pony ! If I did get married 
secretly, it was to my own dear playmate and lover 
that I have known and loved all my life ! And I did 
not disobey any mother and father or near relation, 
Pony. Ah, I did not have any to disobey ! My very 
desolation made me free to do as I liked !” 

“ Yes, dear chile, that it did !” said the woman, sooth- 
ingly. 


88 


‘ Em. 


“ Only, Pony, I was such a coward ! I was as much 
frightened as if I had committed a great sin ! That 
woman had so broken my spirit, Pony. And, oh, Pony, 
no tongue could tell ! no mind could conceive what I 
suffered, when misfortune after misfortune, like thun- 
der-bolt upon thunder-bolt, fell upon me ! My dear 
guardian died ; my kind old Priest Ned died ; my 
friend, Commander Bruce, went so sea ; my darling 
Lonny was lost on the coast of Barbary ; my marriage 
certificate and all my papers that could have saved me 
from reproach were stolen ; and I an utterly helpless 
girl, left in the hands of my cruel enemy, to meet unde- 
served dishonor, — dishonor worse than death ! — dis- 
honor over which my enemy would have exulted ! Oh, 
Pony, do you wonder that I was almost mad ! Do you 
wonder that I provided myself with the means of 
escape, and even triumphed in its possession ? Do you 
wonder at anything, Pony ?” 

“ No, Miss ’Lyn, I don’t !” sighed the woman. 

“ But I only meant to die, when all was over, and the 
innocent was safe, Pony !” 

“ Oh, Miss ’Lyn, dear, don’t talk of it !” 

“ No, for I feel as if all will be right now ! Oh, Pony, 
I am so glad you thought to question me and draw this 
all from me, for I should never have had the courage 
to tell you all of myself. Now I feel so light ! Just as if 
a great load had been lifted off my heart, or as if I had 
come out of a long, long, dark cave into the open sun- 
light ! And we are going to run away, Pony ! And 
we have a right to run away, for now that my dear 
guardian has passed to his eternal home, we owe no 
duty to anybody in this house; and no one here has 
any right to prevent us ! — though Mrs. Warde will do it 
if she can !” concluded Emolyn, with a sudden shudder 
and a total change of aspect. 


A Crisis. 


89 


“ She sha’n’t, honey ! Don’t you be afeard ! I’ll get 
you away safe, and, in two days more, you’ll be safe 
and sound in my brother’s house in de mountains of 
Pennsylwany !” 

“ Oh, Pony ! what a vision of liberty ! what a vision 
of rapture ! And to think all that safety and freedom 
can be obtained without any sin ! — for I have a right to 
escape, haven’t I, Pony ?” 

“ It is more than your right to escape, it is your duty 
to escape, Miss ’Lyn ?” 

“ Then all this peace and safety can be had without 
sin ! Oh ! Pony, I have been so utterly, so unspeakably 
miserable, that I had grown to think that there was no 
escape, no peace, no safety to be had, without sin, more 
sin and deeper misery !” 

“ Poor chile ! poor chile ! had you lost faith in the 
Lord’s love as well as all the rest ?” said Melpomene. 

“ I fear so ! But, oh ! what a change has come over 
me, Pony ! I feel as if I was raised from death to life ! 
I can escape without doing any wrong that would keep 
me from my morning and evening prayers to the Lord, 
or from my Sabbath’s communion ! I can go and rest 
in a home of peace and safety, and there wait for the 
coming of my child — Lonny’s child ! and then when I 
am eighteen years of age, I can return and claim my 
estate, and we will go and live at Wynde Slopes — you 
and I and the child ! Oh, we will be so happy there, 
dear Pony ! I shall be mistress and no one can have 
the right to trouble me ! and you shall be nurse and 
only second to me. Oh, Pony, we shall be so happy '. 
And then when Commander Bruce comes from sea, I 
will have courage to go to him and say : 

“ ‘ I am the widow of your son. This child is his 
orphan. I am wealthy, as you know, but for your 
grand-child’s sake you must acknowledge me as a 


90 


“ Em. 


daughter and sustain me in my position !’ I see it all 
so clearly now, Pony ! Oh, I must have been very mad 
in my misery not to have confided in you before this, 
Pony !” 

“ I wish I had had the courage to question you before, 
honey, it would have saved you from many a heartache ; 
but truth to tell, I didn’t know for sartain, and I was 
afeared of givin’ just offence.” 

“ Pony, I know I was always so cross ; I mean, not 
always, but since I have been in such distress.” 

“ No wonder, honey ; but here is your desk ; write 
your order now and give it to me, and I will get the locket 
out of the drawer, and take both down with me, and 
maybe not come up again till I have done my errand ; 
’cause you see, honey, I must slip out whenever I get a 
chance to do so without being seen or questioned.” 

“ Yes ; that is best,” briskly exclaimed Emolyn, as 
she raised herself up in bed, opened her little desk, and 
laid out her note-paper. 

Meanwhile Pony went to the dressing-bureau, drew 
out the upper drawer, and took from it the small 
morocco case containing the diamond-set miniature 
locket — Emolyn’s last, reserved treasure. 

“ Here is your order, Pony,” said the girl, as she 
folded her note and closed her desk. 

“ And here’s the locket, honey. Would you like to 
look at it before I take it away ?” said Pony, as she 
approached the bed and opened the morocco case. 

“ Oh, yes ! yes ! hand it here ! Oh ! Pony, be very 
careful of the miniatures. Tell the jeweler to remove 
them very carefully from the frames,” said Emolyn, as 
she took the locket, opened it, and pressed her lips 
upon * “ the counterfeit presentments ” of her lost 
parents, 

“ Be sure I will be careful, and see that the jeweler is 


A Crisis . 


9 1 


careful also. But don’t you have any care about any- 
thing, honey. I will ’range everything complete my- 
self. I’ll be back from the jewelers with the money 
for the diamonds, and with the miniatures all safe, 
before twelve o’clock to-day , and I’ll make every ’range - 
ment so as to take you by the arm and lead you right 
outen this house at two o’clock to-night , to take the four 
o’clock stage to Baltimore to-morrow morning.” 

“ Oh, Pony ! Bless you ! Bless you, Pony !” gladly 
exclaimed Emolyn. 

The faithful woman lifted and kissed the little hand 
held out to her, and then slipping the locket and order 
into her pocket, left the room, closing the door behind 
her. 

Full of zeal for her mistress’s service, Pony ran gay- 
ly down the front stairs to — fall into the clutches of 
Mrs. Warde at the lower landing. 

“ So !” said that fell woman, as she grasped the wrist 
of the startled and terrified nurse. “ So, you wretch ! 
You have committed a theft, and are planning an 
abduction ?” 

“ Let me go ! I am doing my own mistress’s errand,” 
exclaimed Pony, recovering her breath and her wits at 
the same time, and struggling desperately to free her- 
self. 

“ You dare to resist me ? Philip, come here ! Tie 
this woman’s hands behind her back while I hold her !” 
cried Mrs. Warde, grasping Pony around the waist with 
the strength of steel. 

“ Oh, for Heaven’s sake let me go and do my young 
lady ’a errand ! It is only to bring her what she wants, 
and* she is so sick !” pleaded poor Pony, as the hall 
footman, compelled to obey his terrible mistress, seized 
and bound the hands of the captive. 

** Only something she wants, is it ? I know what she 


92 


“Em." 


wants ! Do you suppose, you idiot, that your mistress 
or yourself have been unwatched for one instant, day or 
night, for the past month ? No. Two such schemers 
were not to be trusted to themselves. I have overheard 
your whole plan, and shall of course defeat it ! Not 
only so ; but I shall effectually prevent all future con- 
spiracies by placing you where you can hold no more 
communications with your shameless mistress !” said 
Mrs. Warde, vindictively. 

“ She has nothing to be ashamed of, ’less it’s being 
kin to such as you !” retorted Pony, with much spirit. 

“ Search the woman ! She has stolen goods upon 
her ! I will swear it !” cried Mrs. Warde, maliciously. 

The hall-footman like one ashamed of his office while 
compelled to obey his mistress, began to search the 
pockets of the now bound and helpless victim, and pro- 
duced from them the morocco case, containing the 
locket set with diamonds. 

“ Ah, ha !” exclaimed Mrs. Warde, as she received 
them from the hands of the man. “ This locket is 
valued at five hundred dollars ! This theft will send 
you to the penitentiary, with hard labor, for seven years 
at least, and serve you right, you wretch !” exclaimed 
the lady, with malignant triumph. 

“ It belongs to my mistress ! She has a right to do 
as she pleases with it, and she gave me a written order 
to sell the diamonds, for her own benefit, as you know 
very well, if you eavesdropped and overheard our talk, 
as you say you did !” retorted Pony. 

“ You stole these diamonds and shall be prosecuted 
for the theft !” exclaimed Mrs. Warde. 

“ I never stole nothing in all my life, so I never stole 
no diamonds, as my dear young mist’ess can prove for 
me. I wish everybody’s hands was as clean as mine is ! 
There’d be less trouble in th$ worle ! But I ’spects 


A Crists. 


93 


somebody, not far from here, stole my young - mist’ess’ 
papers and dockerments, which she can prove, too ! 
but the Lord is over us all ! And He’ll see justice 
done sooner or later ” said Pony, courageously. 

“ Take her away ! Take her away ! If she resists, 
pick her up in your arms and carry her ! Lock her 
up in the cellar-closet, until I can send for a police- 
man to take her to prison,” exclaimed Mrs. Warde, 
purple with fury. 

“ If you please, ma’am, here is a note, I took from 
her pocket,” said Philip. 

“ It is my mistress’s order to sell her locket,” cried 
Pony. 

“ I don’t believe it ! But give me the paper ! I’ll 
take care of it,” exclaimed Mrs. Warde, seizing upon 
the note. 

Meanwhile, Philip, a huge, strong man, deeply 
ashamed of his commission, even while compelled to 
execute it, picked up the helpless captive in his arms and 
carried her off to the head of the cellar stairs. 

“ I had better see my orders executed with my own 
eyes, and keep the keys myself,” said Mrs. Warde, with 
a sudden impulse, as she followed the jailer and the 
prisoner down the cellar steps and s&w the former place 
the latter in the dark, damp, long disused closet of the 
underground cellar. 

Pony, dumb with despair, not for herself but for her 
mistress, was securely locked in. 

Mrs. Warde tried the door to see that it was secure, 
and then took the keys and left the dreary place, 
followed by her hall-footman. 

But there Pony was left without bedding, food or fire. 

And meanwhile how fared it with her desolate mis- 
tress ? How now fared it with Emolyn Bruce ? 



CHAPTER IX. 

A. CATASTROPHE. 

Me, miserable ! which way shall I fly ? 

Milton. 

As soon as Pony had left her alone, Emolyn looked at 
the little clock upon the mantel-piece that stood just op- 
posite the foot of her bed, and saw that the hour was 
only a few minutes after nine. 

“ Pony said she would return by twelve, noon. I have 
three hours to wait ? Oh, what long hours they will 
seem ! What can I do. to shorten them ? I have noth- 
ing to read, and nothing to sew ; and I cannot go to 
sleep again ! I will shut my eyes and lay and dream 
awake of the strange life before me !” 

And so saying to herself, Emolyn closed her eyes up- 
on all visible things and set her fancy free to rove over 
time and space. 

In dreams, she saw Pony return with about two hun- 
dred dollars, received from the forced sale of diamonds 
worth five hundred ; she went through their hasty, 
cautious packing, she disguised herself and her faithful 
servant, and waited, with locked doors, for the hour of 
flight, “in the dead waste and middle of the night.” 

In dreams she stole out of the house while all the 
household were buried in sleep, and attended by her 
maid, walked through the open fields that lay be- 
tween their suburban residence and the centre of the city 
194 ] 


A Catastrophe. 


95 


where they were to take the Baltimore stage-coach, in the 
gray of the morning. 

In imagination she found herself and her servant 
closely cloaked, hooded and vailed, and tucked into ob- 
scure corners of the back seat. 

In imagination she took that stage-coach journey in 
the dawn of day to Baltimore, changed coaches there, 
and started for the mountains of Pennsylvania. 

She pictured to herself her arrival with her maid at 
the cottage home of the relatives to whom Pony was to 
take her ; she pictured their surprise and delight at see- 
ing Pony, and their bewilderment and perplexity on 
seeing her — strange young lady. 

Then, being of a most sympathetic and benevolent 
nature, and judging all others by herself, she pictured 
the warm welcome, the heart-felt kindness with which 
they would receive her and cherish her when once they 
had heard her sorrowful story, as Pony would tell it ! 
And she thought with what deep joy she should, in 
time, reward their kindness by placing them forever 
above the reach of want. 

Lying there in her day-dream she pictured herself a 
happy mother, with her son upon her lap ; for she had 
persuaded herself that the child who was coming to her 
must be a lovely boy, who would look like Lonny. And 
she thought with eager impatience, of the time, less than 
two years thence, when she should be eighteen years of 
age, and when she should be mistress of her own estate 
and when she should take her child in her arms and 
carry him to Commander Bruce and say : 

“ See, here is the only son of your only son, whose 
widow I am. I have come to tell you that you are not 
childless in your old age.” 

And she pictured the incredulity and perplexity of the 


96 


“ Em" 


lonely old man until she should have explained and 
proved everything to his satisfaction and delight. 

And for her darling, lost Lonny’s sake, she would stay 
with the old commander and be his daughter and little 
Lonny’s mother as long as she should live. She would 
never marry, never ; but when her hour of translation 
should come, she would be able to say to her young hus- 
band : 

“ I was always true to you and the son you gave me, 
while I lingered down there on the sad earth.” 

And then he, no longer a wild boy, but a strong angel, 
would welcome her and love her forever. 

Dreaming these bright day-dreams, Emolyn was un- 
conscious of the flight of time, until she was aroused by 
the opening of her door. 

She started up wide awake as her eye fell upon the 
time-piece, whose hands pointed to one o’clock. Then 
glancing at the door through which she expected her 
servant to appear, she exclaimed briskly : 

“ Oh, you are an hour beyond your time, you lazy old 
Pony. It is after one o’clock.” 

But the next instant she uttered an exclamation of 
dismay, as her eyes met the baleful black orbs of Mrs. 
Warde fixed upon her. 

“ Ah ! you were looking for some one else ? But I do 
myself the honor of bringing you some luncheon,” said 
the unexpected visitor, as she set down upon the stand 
a small tray on which was arranged a plate of stewed 
oysters and another of crackers. 

“ I— I am very sorry you took the trouble. Could not 
Pony have brought this up to me ?” inquired Emolyn, 
in perplexity and alarm; for it was an unexampled 
event for Mrs. Warde to condescend to perform such a 
service for anybody, and for Emolyn it was a terrifying 
one. 


A Catastrophe. 


97 


“ Hum — I have not seen your maid since early this 
morning,” evasively replied the lady. 

“Oh!” thought Emolyn to herself ; “Pony has not 
yet returned, and is later than she expected to be, and 
this woman does not suspect anything ; but why, then^ 
should she take the trouble to bring my luncheon up 
three pair of stairs ? I know she does not care any- 
thing about me. Indeed I know she hates me. I am 
almost afraid to taste anything she brings me.” 

“Come, come !” said Mrs. Warde, impatiently throw- 
ing herself down in the arm-chair beside Emolyn’s bed, 
“ come, come ! are you not going to eat your oysters ?” 

“ Oh, thank you very much ; but — I would much 
rather not. I am not at all hungry,” faltered Emolyn. 

“ Oh, nonsense ! You must force an appetite then, 
and eat. Your face is as thin as a weasel’s, and it is 
getting thinner every day ! Now, I am not going to 
have you starve yourself into a consumption, just to 
spite me, and get me talked about ! Come, eat a few 
spoonsful, at all events,” said the woman, taking up the 
tray and placing it on the bed, immediately under the 
nose of the girl, and then uncovering the oysters, so 
that she must smell them. 

The appetizing savor saluting the senses of the fast- 
ing girl, excited in her that irresistible hunger which 
compelled gratification. She smelled, she toyed with 
the spoon, she tasted. 

The oysters were delicious ; there could be nothing 
wrong with them, she argued, else would her taste at 
once have detected it. No, she was morbidly suspicious ; 
her cousin, Malvina, was bad enough ! Yes, bad 
enough to use false keys and steal her letters and 
papers, but not bad enough to poison her ! After all, 
there was a wide difference between a pilferer and a 
poisoner. 


9 8 


“ Ejn." 


So secretly arguing with herself, Emolyn smelled, 
tasted, and then ate, and enjoyed the oysters. 

“ Thanks, Cousin Malvina,” she said, as she returned 
the empty bowl to the tray. 

“ That will do you good,” said Mrs. Warde, as she 
took up the tray and carried it out of the room, closing 
the door after her. 

“ I wonder what she means by this show of kindness ? 
She means something unnatural, I know that. Oh, I 
wish Pony would come ! Half-past one, and Pony not 
come yet,” said Emolyn, impatiently, as she glanced at 
the clock. 

Presently she smacked her lips, and frowned, saying : 

“ Those oysters were very nice, and seemed all right 
while I was eating them, but they have certainly left a 
bitter taste in my mouth that I did not perceive until 
all the other tastes had gone. But, there, I am fanciful 
and bilious. I won’t think such dreadful thoughts. 
Oh, how I wish Pony would come ! What can delay 
her ?” 

Another half-hour crept slowly by, and Emolyn 
became very restless from other causes than mere im- 
patience. 

“ There was something in the oysters !” she exclaimed, 
as she turned upon her bed. “ Oh, but I will not think 
it ! It is the last day in April now, and the oyster 
season is over, and they in themselves are likely enough 
to make one ill, without any other cause. Oh, how I 
wish Pony would come. It is two o’clock, and she 
promised to be here at twelve. Two hours behind her 
time. What can have happened to her ?” 

Another hour passed slowly by, while Emolyn’s ill- 
ness increased. She could no longer lie on her bed, 
but walked the floor with unsteady steps ; now drop- 
ping upon the nearest chair or sofa, and now starting 


99 


A Catastrophe. 


up and staggering wildly about the room, sometimes 
exclaiming : 

“ Oh, I am poisoned ! I know that I am poisoned !” 
And then again : 

“ Ah, how wickedly suspicious I am ! The unseason- 
able oysters have made me ill, nothing else. Oh, how 
I wish Pony would come ! Three o’clock ! Good 
heaven ! Three o’clock ! She went away at nine, and 
promised to be back at twelve, and now it is three. 
She stays just twice as long as she said she would. Oh, 
Pony ! Pony ! come to me ! I am ill almost to death !” 
So saying she threw herself upon the bed. 

In a few moments she sprang up, exclaiming : 

“ I must have help !” And she flew to the door to 
call assistance ; but, to her consternation, she found it 
locked on the outer side. 

“ Oh, I see it all, now,” she wailed in a voice of des- 
pair. “ I see it now ! I am poisoned and locked in here 
to die without help. I will not so die ! I will call from 
the windows ! I will shout from the windows ! And 
the people will see and hear me from the street, and 
they will fetch the police to come in and see what is the 
matter !” 

Acting upon this desperate impulse, Emolyn flew to 
the front windows to raise them and throw open the 
blinds ; but, to her astonishment and dismay, she found 
them screwed down fast. 

“ This has been done since yesterday. Some one has 
entered my room during my absence and Pony’s, and 
has done this. Oh, I am entrapped ! I am entrapped 
by a demon. Oh, Pony ! why don’t you come back ! You 
would find a way to enter into my room, or you would 
fetch those who would force an entrance. Oh, Pony ! 
Pony ! my only friend, come back to poor Emolyn. I 
am betrayed, and I am poisoned. I am ill and dying, 


IOO 


“ Em. 


Pony ! Oh, treachery ! treachery ! treachery !” So wail- 
ing, the unfortunate girllost strength and conscious- 
ness, and fell down in a swoon — in a swoon from which 
anguish was soon to arouse her. 

In the meanwhile, Mrs. Warde, on leaving Emolyn’s 
chamber, had retired to her own room, where she sat 
waiting an expected visitor. 

About two o’clock, the man Philip came to her, with 
a message that Mrs. Whitlock, the nurse, wished to 
speak with her. 

“ Tell her to come up. She knows the way,” answered 
the lady. 

The man withdrew, and was soon succeeded by the 
nurse, who entered with a deep courtesy. 

“Well, Whitlock, sit down and then tell me what has 
brought you here,” said the lady. 

“ Well, ma’am,” returned the nurse, dropping into a 
low seat and panting, “ you know I told you as I was 
sure, unless things could be brought to a crisis within 
twenty-four hours I could’t help you, if it was to save 
my life. I told you that this morning, didn’t I, 
ma’am ?” 

“ Yes, and I have acted on your advice.” 

“ Well, now I tell you more, ma’am. Ef this here 
affair can’t be finished up to-night, it can never be 
done ; it would be impossible to make things hit, 
ma’am. I say it most respectful, but I say it most 
positive. It would be impossible to make things hit, 
ma’am !” 

“ Do not fear. The work is commenced. Did I not 
tell you I had acted on your advice ? I have adminis- 
tered the drug you left, and it has already begun to 
take effect. Mind ! the doors will be closed to-night as 
usual at ten o’clock. The servants will all be in the 
kitchen, or in their sleeping apartments over the 


A Catastrophe . 


IOI 


kitchen, in the back building of this house. I shall then 
close and bolt the doors communicating between the 
front and back parts (though I must open them again 
before daylight, to avoid exciting comment). Thus we 
shall have the whole house to ourselves.” 

“ But the young lady’s maid, ma’am ? Muley, or what- 
ever her name is ! She sleeps in the room next her 
lady, don’t she ?” 

“ You mean Pony ? No, she does not sleep in the 
house now. There will be no one in the house except 
you, myself, and — our patient. I will have every light 
put out and every door locked by ten o’clock to-night. 
I will then take up my position at the front parlor 
window and watch for you. You must cough loudly ; 
then I will open the door and let you in.” 

“ Yes, ma’am. I will remember to cough.” 

“ Now what time will you come ?” 

“ Ah ! dear ma’am, I couldn’t tell you to the hour. 
It depends on what happens, you know, ma’am. But 
some time between this and morning/’ 

“ I hope it will not be too near the morning. That 
would be too dangerous, and might be fatal,” said Mrs. 
Warde, uneasily. 

“ I don’t think it will be too near morning, ma’am. 
Indeed, for the matter of that, it is likely to be too near 
this evening ; but I shall do the very best I can,” re- 
plied the woman. 

“ Very well. Remember that, in any case, for your 
assistance in this matter, you receive a perfect immun- 
ity from prosecution for that offence of which we know, 
and for which, if you were arraigned, you would be con- 
victed and sent to prison for a term of years.” 

“ Oh, I know that, ma’am. I know it ! Don’t I think 
of it all day long ? Don’t I wake up in the night to 
think of it ?” 


102 


“ Em r 


“ Think of it no longer since you assist me in this 
matter, however it may turn out, you will be free from 
danger. And remember, also, that if our enterprise 
should be successful, in one month from to-day — name- 
ly, on the first of June — you will receive from my hands 
the sum of five hundred dollars.” 

“ Yes, ma’am,” respectfully replied the woman. 
“ But not for that, oh, not for that, would I engage in 
this black business. Only to save myself from a prison 
and my poor name from disgrace,” she added to her- 
self. 

“ Why do you mutter and look so grave ? Do you 
suppose I will not keep my promise ?” tartly demanded 
Mrs. Warde. 

“ No, ma’am — I know that you will do what you say ; 
but I am overstaying my time, and I fear I shall be 
missed. Besides, it is perilous to leave my patient even 
for half an hour. Let me say good-night to you, 
ma’am.” 

“ Good-night, until I see you again. Remember the 
signal. I shall be on the watch.” 

“ I shall remember, ma’am,” said the woman, as she 
left the room. 

***** 

That night, in the old Manor Hall of Green Point, 
- while all the household, except two, were buried in 
sleep, “ in the dead of night,” a deed was done that has 
no name in all the catalogue of crime. 



CHAPTER X. 

RUIN. 

A deed without a name. — S hakespeare. 

The next morning was the first of May — a general 
holiday — the joyous May-day, anticipated with delight 
by all the young people of the city. 

The sun arose in cloudless splendor, lighting up the 
clear, light blue sky, the bright river, the green fields 
and verdant woods. The air was fragrant with the 
perfume of wild flowers, and musical with the songs of 
free, glad birds. 

All nature breathed of life, and light, and joy ! It 
was the very jubilee of the year ! 

From an early hour troops of children might have 
been seen passing in front of the mansion in Green 
Point on their way to the bridge, to cross the river and 
go “ Maying" in the wild woods on the opposite bank. 

Their merry tattle and ringing laughter might have 
awakened sounder sleepers than those of Green Point. 

Within that house of sin and doom, the unsuspicious 
servants were early astir. 

Philip, the man-servant, went as usual to open all 
the doors and windows to let in the morning sunshine 

[103] 


io4 


“ Em! 


and fresh air ; and then to dust the furniture and kin- 
dle the light wood fires that the chilly dawn of early 
morning rendered pleasant as well as prudent. 

But in all his going to and fro, Philip saw no signs of 
anything unusual about the premises. 

In the kitchen, the housekeeper and cook, old Aunt 
Monica, was busy over her fire, baking rolls and broil- 
ing spring chickens, while Phillis, her assistant, ground 
the coffee. 

A shouting troop of children, passing by, attracted 
her attention. 

■ “ What a noise dem young ones does make, to be 
sure ! Minds me so of last May-day was a year, when 
Miss Emolyn and Marse Lonny went Maying over in 
de woods across de river, and took Melpony with ’em ! 
Ah ! my Lord ! How many changes since dem happy, 
derry-down-dilly days ! Dem was days, gal ! Ole 
master was alive den and keeping up high-jim-be-lung 
all day and all night with his merry ’panions, as why 
not ? Why shouldn’t he ’joy hisse’f with his friends ? 
’Deed I never ’jected to it myself, dough I had all de 
cooking to do, ’cept when a upstart Frenchman was 
called in to dress the frogs and snails and sich like rip- 
tyles as no ’spectable cook would tetch, and no 
'spectable, ’sponsible ge’man eat. Ole marse wouldn’t, 
that I tell you all good. He only had ’em served up 
for some of his foreign ’panions and wisiters. Ah, dem 
was the days, gal, ole marster ’joyed his life ! Sich 
breakfas’ parties and dinner parties and oyster suppers 
and champagne lunches ! Whip your horses ! Don’t 
talk ! And Miss Emolyn persiding with as much grace 
and diggerty as if she was a young princess.” 

“ I nebber seed nuffin like dat,” answered the jet- 
black negress Phillis. 

“ No, I reckon not ! How should you ? You come 


Ruin. 


05 


from camp, ’long of old mist’ess, Mrs. Warde. And 
when she come, in her deep mourning, all was changed. 
Not as I think she cared for him one bit, mind you, but 
oh, law ! the blackest bombazine and the deepest crape. 
It was like forty funerals had come into de house all at 
wunst. No more derry-down-dilly days ! No more 
high-jim-be-lung nights ! No more champagne lunches! 
No more oyster suppers ! Poor old marse hardly dared 
to smoke a pipe, or play a rubber of whist with an ole. 
croney, till he lost all his gay sperrits, and looked jes for 
all de worle like a crippled crow out in de rain. And 
she a train-banding Miss Emolyn to that degree de gal 
almos’ lost her lunacies. And eberything that gloomy 
in the house till I did wish in my soul as it was the fash- 
ion to burn some widows on a pile of light wood with 
the bodies of their husbands, like they do in them there 
heathen countries out yonder !” 

“ Eh ? Where does dey do dat ?” inquired Phillis 
rolling the whites of her eyes in astonishment. 

“ You tend to grinding your coffee, and don’t ask 
questions. Your mist’ess brought bad luck enough into 
this house. It killed ole marster. I jes believe it did ! 
He never was the same man after she come home ! 
Dere go de chillern again ! Ah, Lord ! Well I ’mem- 
ber last year, when Marse Lonny Bruce come in a shout- 
ing and carried off Miss Emolyn and Melpony across the 
river. And, oh, the loads and loads of wild honeysuckle 
and eglantine they brought home and trimmed ole 
marse’s room with. And, now, where is dey all ? Ole 
marse mouldering in de churchyard. Young Marse 
Lonny at the bottom of the briny waves. Miss Emolyn 
dying of some inward illness. Even poor Melpony 
come to trouble, being ’cused o’ stealing, which she 
nebber did, and locked up for it. There’s the madam’s 
bell I Run, Phillis ! I’ll finish grinding the coffee.” 


io6 


“ Em. 


The black girl immediately dropped her first office of 
kitchen scullion by taking off her coarse apron and 
washing her hands, and she assumed her more agreeable 
duties as lady’s maid by putting on a clean, white mus- 
lin apron, collar and cuffs, and running to answer her 
mistress’s bell. 

For, since the death of Captain Wyndeworth, the es- 
tablishment at Green Point had been cut down to suit 
the reduced income of the house, and it now consisted 
of only four servants — the cook, the housemaid, the 
man servant, and Emolyn’s attendant. 

Old Monica prepared her coffee, and had breakfast 
ready to serve at a minute’s notice, for she knew that 
Mrs. Ward was never long at her morning toilet. 

“ Now, I wonder who is going to take that poor 
child’s, Miss Emolyn’s, breakfast up to her ? I know 
ole mist’ess ’tended to her yesterday ; but, like as not, 
she’ll neglect to look arter her to-day ; and it’s almost 
as much as my life’s worth to take it on myself to look 
arter her. ’Deed it is almost as much as any servant’s 
life is worth to wary one single hair’s breadth outen de 
line ob duty she’s described for dem, dere.” 

Old Monica’s soliloquy was interrupted by the en- 
trance of Philip, who came in hurriedly, and said : 

“ The madam has ordered breakfast to be put on the 
table at wunst. So hurry up, Aunt Monica !” 

“ Who’s yer talkin’ to? Breakfas’ is ready ! Put it 
on your tray and sarve it immediate.” 

The huge giant meekly obeyed the little old woman, 
and with his well-laden tray went up to the dining- 
room— that room which had been the scene of so many 
feasts in the days of her father, and which Mrs. Warde 
still chose to use in preference to a smaller one, on 
account of its fine outlook upon the river and the 
wooded hills beyond. 


Ruin . 


107 


Philip had scarcely arranged the substantial breakfast 
upon the table, when Mrs. Warde entered the room. 

She wore a dark gray cashmere wrapper, trimmed 
with black silk facings, and confined around her waist 
by a black silk cord and tassels, and above her raven 
hair she wore a little muslin breakfast cap, trimmed 
with gray and black ribbon. She looked as handsome 
and as haughty as ever ; but her face was pale and 
drawn, and her manner absent and nervous from some 
secret source of trouble and anxiety, that she could not 
altogether conceal even from her unsuspicious ser- 
vant. 

She sat down at the table and poured out a cup of 
coffee, which she drank eagerly without cream or 
sugar. 

When her waiter offered her the plate of rolls, she 
took one, broke it and buttered it, but let it lay 
untasted. 

When he offered her the dish of broiled chickens, she 
took half a small one and put it on her plate, and made 
a feint of eating a little. 

But presently she pushed away her breakfast, leaned 
back in her chair and said : 

“ Philip, go and tell Monica to come here." 

The man bowed and left the room, and in a few 
moments returned, accompanied by the cook. 

“ Monica,” began the lady, “ you are aware, 1 suppose, 
that Melpomene is no longer in attendance upon her 
mistress. I wish you, therefore, to take Melpomene’s 
place this morning, and indeed until I can provide a 
substitute, which I hope to do during the day.” 

“ Yes, ma’am, willingly will I wait on Miss Emolyn. 
But please, ma’am, what is the matter with poor Miss 
Emolyn ? She did look like death when I see her the 
last time,” Monica ventured to say. 


io8 


“ Em. 


“ I don’t know what is the matter with her. But for 
the girl’s stubborn refusal to see a physician, I should 
have called in one long ago. However, I shall put it 
off no longer. I shall have a doctor to see her to-day,” 
said Mrs. Warde, with so much more than her usual 
condescension in speaking to her servants that poor old 
Monica was surprised into saying : 

“ Indeed, I hope you will, ma’am, for the child looks 
like one at the point of death.” 

“ There — that will do. Now just arrange some break- 
fast upon a tray for Miss Wyudeworth and take it up to 
her at once,” said Mrs. Warde, by way of checking the 
old woman’s continued freedom of speech, as she her- 
self arose from the table and went up to her room. 

She did not there settle herself to any occupation, 
but merely took a book in her hand as a pretence and 
sat down near the door, which she left open. She 
listened and watched with much more anxiety than the 
slight occasion of carrying a little breakfast up to a sick 
girl would seem to warrant. 

Presently she heard old Monica coming slowly up the 
stairs — slowly as her age compelled her to move. 

She paused before the open door and exhibited a 
dainty little repast arranged upon a neat tray and cov- 
ered with a snow-white napkin. 

“ Don’t you think she might relish this, ma’am ?” she 
said, raising the edge of the napkin. 

“ I hope so ; you had better go and see,” replied the 
lady. 

Old Monica turned to climb the second flight of stairs, 
while Mrs. Warde looked after her, flushing and paling, 
staring and trembling as if she momentarily expected 
the explosion of a bomb-shell or the falling of a thunder 
bolt. 

She listened acutely until she heard old Monica rap 


Ruin, 


109 


discreetly at Emolyn’s door, and, without waiting for an 
answer, turn the knob of the latch and go in. 

There was a pause of about a minute that seemed an 
hour to the listening lady, who held her breath in sus- 
pense, 

And then came a cry of horror that rang through and 
through the house. 

Mrs. Warde started up and rushed into the passage. 
It was her cue to do so. 

Philip and Phillis, terrified by that awful cry, ran up 
from the dining-room to see what had happened. 

And old Monica, aghast with horror, came running 
down from Emolyn’s chamber. 

The four met in a moment at the foot of the stairs, 
and gazed into each other’s faces. 

“ In the name of heaven, what is the matter ?” gasped 
Mrs. Warde, who was trembling as with a chill. 

“ Oh, mist’ess, mist’ess ! Miss Emolyn ! Miss Emo- 
lyn !” cried Monica, crazed with terror. 

“What of her? What is the matter with her ? Can’t 
you speak, woman ?” panted the pale Malvina Warde. 

“ Oh, mist’ess ! Oh, mist’ess ! Come see ! Come 
see ! I can’t speak it ! No, I can’t !” gasped the 
woman. 

“ Follow me, all of you,” said Mrs. Warde, in a hollow 
voice, as she laid her hand on the balustrades, and sup- 
porting herself by them, toiled slowly and painfully up 
the stairs. 

The woman seemed, indeed, not like one who 
expected and feared to behold a terrible catastrophe, 
but like one who was already blasted by some vision of 
horror. 

The frightened and wondering servants went close 
behind her until she entered the half-darkened cham- 
ber of Emolyn. 


no 


“ Em. 


There they paused discreetly at the door. 

The lady slowly crossed the gloomy chamber ; but 
when she reached the bedside she threw up her hands 
and uttered a half-suppressed shriek. Then turning to 
the group at the door, she cried out : 

“ Come no nearer, Philip ! Hasten for a doctor ! 
Phillis, go fetch me hartshorn ! Monica, here !” 

The two younger servants hurried away on their 
errands, and the elder one closed the door and mourn- 
fully joined her mistress at the bedside. 

Both stood silent and horrified, gazing upon the 
picture before them. It was a picture to appall the 
stoutest heart, to melt the hardest. 

There on the fore part of the bed, with her arms 
thrown over her head, her face turned up, white and 
rigid, with open eyes, and lips like one who had died 
unattended and alone, lay the form of Emolyn Bruce, 
while in the shadows behind her, near the wall, might 
be dimly seen the tiny, dead body of a young infant. 

Monica was the first to speak. 

“ Oh, mist’ess ! Oh, mist’ess ! Oh, what a sight for 
our eyes to behold ! So this was what was the trouble ! 
Oh, if a angel from Heaven had told me, I wouldn’t a 
believed it ! No, I wouldn’t ! Oh, Ts glad now as old 
marse is dead and gone, ’fore ever he lived to see this 
sorrow ! I wish I had been dead and gone too, ’fore 
ever I live to see this day ! Oh, mist’ess, however in 
the world could this happen, and she so good?” 

Mrs. Warde shook her head, and made no reply. 

Monica wrung her withered old hands, and wept 
aloud, crying : 

“ Oh, mist’ess ! look at her ! Look at her, how pitiful 
it is ! To die here all alone in her trouble, without a 
single friend to close her eyes ! But I suppose things 
being as they is, it was better for her to die anyways.” 


Ruin. 


1 1 1 


“Much better,” grimly replied Mrs. Warde. 

Monica’s sobs and tears choked her utterance for a 
while, and then, with a most piteous inconsistency, she 
cried put : 

“Oh, can’t nothing be done ? Ain’t there no hope ? 
Is she quite dead ? Oh, maybe she ain’t ! Oh, maybe 
there may be a little life left in her yet ! Oh, mist’ess 
don’t let us give her up so easy ! Let me rub her hard 
and try and fetch her too ! I’se very strong yet !” 

And so saying, Monica hastily rolled up her sleeves 
and prepared for work. 

“ Don’t touch her on your life ? This is a case for the 
coroner, you idiot !” quickly exclaimed Mrs. Warde. 

At that moment Phillis returned to the room, bring- 
ing a bottle of hartshorn. 

Mrs. Warde met her at the door, took the bottle, and 
sent her away, closing the door behind her. 

Then Mrs. Warde threw herself into an easy-chair and 
strongly inhaled the ammonia. 

“ Oh mist’ess, for the good Lord’s sake, let me put 
some hartshorn to her nose ! There can’t be no harm 
in that ; for I won’t so much as tetch her ; and then 
maybe there won’t be no call for no crowner ; for ’deed 
I ain’t so sure she’s dead, mist’ess. She do look awful 
ghastly, but not like dead, now I come to look at her 
good ! Oh ! mist’ess, please give me de hartshorn, and 
let me see if I can’t ’vive her,” pleaded old Monica. 

“ Come away from that bed this instant ! I tell you 
this may be a case for a coroner’s inquest ; therefore 
nothing must be disturbed until the arrival of the phy- 
sician,” said Mrs. Warde, peremptorily. 

“ But, oh, mist’ess, must we let her die if there should 
be a little life left in her ?” earnestly argued the old 
woman. 

“ The doctor will be here in a few moments — and 


I I 2 


“ Em! 


here he is now !” said Mrs. Warde, as creaking footsteps 
were heard upon the stairs. 

She went and opened the door herself, and stood face 
to face with the family physician, who was there, at- 
tended by the footman. 

“ Oh, Doctor Willet, come in. Such a horrible dis- 
covery ! Such an awful shock ! It is a wonder my 
hair has not turned white within the last hour,” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Warde as she admitted the physician, and 
closed the door upon the retreating footman. 

“ I am very sorry, madam, if anything so serious has 
occurred. Your servant could tell me nothing but that 
some sudden illness, or accident, had happened to Miss 
Wyndeworth,” replied the doctor, sympathetically. 

“ Ah, Doctor ! such accidents as overwhelm a family 
with humiliation ! Come here ! Come here, and look ! 
This picture tells its own sad story !” said Mrs. Warde, 
leading the way to the bedside. 

Leaving the doctor there, she went and threw herself 
into the easy-chair, and buried her face in her handker- 
chief. 

“ Lord, bless my soul ! this is very bad, very bad 
indeed !” exclaimed the doctor, shocked out of his pro- 
fessional reticence, as he saw the sad picture before 
him. “ How did this happen ?” 

“ Ah, I do not know, Doctor ! It seems that no one 
knows ! She kept her secret so well that I left her 
yesterday in this room, without the slightest suspicion 
of the truth, and — I found her this morning as you 
see ! Nothing has been disturbed ; but there lies an 
empty bottle, labeled laudanum, by her pillow ! I 
much fear that the unhappy girl has committed suicide 
by taking laudanum,” said Mrs. Warde, again burying 
her face in her handkerchief. 

“ The poor girl is not dead, but in an opium sleep that 


An Awakening to Despair . 113 


must end in death if she is not aroused. Even to 
arouse her, however, will be dangerous in her present 
condition,” said the doctor. 

“ And the babe ? the babe ?” exclaimed the lady. 

The doctor raised the tiny little form in his hands 
and looked at it before he replied : 

“The child is quite dead.” 

“ A natural death, Doctor ? Oh, tell me the truth ! 
Believe me, I can bear it !” said Mrs. Warde. 

“ No, not a natural death. The child has been 
strangled,” sadly and solemnly replied the doctor. 

“ Oh, horror I horror ! Then if the miserable mother 
should live, she will be liable to prosecution for the 
murder of her child !” exclaimed Mrs. Warde, clasping 
her hands with a distracted air. 

“ Yes,” replied the doctor. “ She must be tried, if 
she should live.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

AN AWAKENING TO DESPAIR. 

O n horror’s head horrors accumulate ! 

Thompson. 

“‘She must be tried for her life if she live.’ Oh, 
Doctor ! would it not be better to let her die ?” 
exclaimed Mrs. Warde, in well-acted desperation. 

“ Madam,” replied the physician, in sorrowful surprise, 
“ do you not know, then, that it is our bounden duty 
to save life, if we can, under all circumstances, even 
when life would be more bitter than death ?” 


“Em.” 


114 


“ Oh, I know that ! Only the grief and horror of the 
situation make me forget everything else.” 

“ That is quite natural, my dear lady ; but I at least 
should keep my old head steady enough to remember 
all that is necessary to be done ; though, indeed, in my 
fifty years of medical practice, I have never met with 
a case so painful ; and I have seen niuch sorrow ! 
Madam, all that is left us now is the performance of 
our duty.” 

Even while the doctor spoke, he was using such 
gentle means as were readiest at hand to awaken, with- 
out startling, the comatose girl ; bathing her face from 
a bowl of cold water silently presented by Monica, and 
occasionally applying to her nostrils the vial of sal-vola- 
tile that had been offered by Mrs. Warde, meanwhile the 
servant briskly rubbed one of the cold hands, and the 
mistress smartly smacked the palm of the other. 

“ Oh, sir ! Oh, Marse Doctor. See ! She is waking 
up, is she not ?” earnestly inquired Monica, who had 
never taken her tearful eyes from the face of her young 
mistress. 

“ Yes,” said the doctor, gravely, “ she is waking up 
partially.” 

Then the three anxious watchers bent over Emolyn 
who had opened her dull, half-closed eyes, and was look- 
ing stupidly straight before her. 

“ Do you know me, my child ?” inquired the doctor, 
trying to catch her glance. 

But he failed to elicit any response by word or look. 

“ Do you know me, Emolyn ?” severely demanded 
Mrs. Warde. 

The sharpness of the tone caused the girl to look at 
the speaker, but she made no answer. 

“Oh, honey, I know you knows me , your poor .ole 




An Awakening to Despair . i 


Aunt Moniky, as her heart is broke for you this minute. 
You knows me, honey, don’t you ?” pleaded the old 
woman. 

“Yes,” sighed Emolyn, wearily, as she closed her 
eyes and resigned herself to sleep once more. 

“ We must keep her awake now,” said the doctor. 

And he rapidly gave his orders, sending Mrs. Warde 
in one direction and Monica in another, for the articles 
he needed to antidote the opium. 

By the united efforts of the three, the unhappy girl 
was gradually but fully awakened, though she was still 
sufficiently under the influence of the opium to seem 
unnaturally calm and collected, in her terrible circum- 
stances. At least, so thought those who looked on. 
She only turned her face away from the doctor, and 
shuddered whenever Mrs. Warde approached her. 

“ I think we had better leave her for the present to 
be watched by the colored woman. She seems to bear 
her presence better than ours. Come, my dear Mrs. 
Warde, let us go farther away. There is much painful 
business to be done here, you know,” whispered the 
doctor in a very low voice, as he drew the lady from 
the bedside to the farthest front window. 

“ Should not the body of that unfortunate babe be 
prepared for burial ?” inquired Mrs. Warde. 

“ There must be an inquest first ; I am grieved to 
have this to say, but it is indispensable, you know.” 

“ Yes, I know.” 

“ The body, however, may be removed at once from 
its present position,” said the doctor, as he beckoned 
old Monica to approach them. 

She came at once. 

“ My good woman, as soon as you get a chance, take 
up that little corpse and bring it here and lay it on a 
pillow on this table. But do not disturb the mother by 


“ Em." 


1 16 


letting her see what you are doing. Do you under- 
stand ?” inquired the doctor in a low tone. 

The old creature nodded intelligently, and returned 
to her post, where she watched for the opportunity of 
removing the babe. 

But Emolyn, though preternaturally indifferent to her 
condition, was wide awake and very watchful. 

When Monica returned to her bedside she made a 
sign that the old woman should stoop down to her ; 
and when her wish was complied with she whispered : 

“ Are they gone ?" 

“ Is who gone, honey ?” inquired old Monica, uncer- 
tain whether Emolyn was in her right senses, or knew 
what she was talking about. 

“ Mrs. Warde and the doctor. Are they gone ?” 

“ Yes, honey, they’s gone.” 

“ Hush ! Have they left the room ?” 

“Yes, honey, sure !” promptly replied Monica, who 
would have lied her soul to perdition to have soothed 
her unhappy young lady. 

“ Down stairs ?” 

“Yes, honey, down stairs.” 

“ Monica, where is Pony ?” 

The old woman paused a moment. She had no lie 
ready, and she was slow of invention ; but at length a 
bright idea struck her, and she answered : 

“ Oh, honey, Melpony sprained her ankle and can’t 
get upstairs. So I has got to wait on you in her place.” 

“ Pony has sprained her ankle ! Oh, that was the 
reason why she couldn’t come back to me ! And she 
had no one to whom she could confide a message ! 
That was the cause of all the trouble. Poor Pony ! 
And, oh, poor me ! Monica.” 

“ What is it, honey ?” 

“ Do you know that I have a little baby ?” 


An Awakening to Despair . 117 


“Yes, honey, I knows all about it; but don’t you 
fret.” 

“ Monica ! do they know it ?” 

“ Yes, honey ; but please don’t ’sturb yourself.” 

“ Ah me ! Ah me ! Monica, I never committed any 
sin.” 

“ I don’t believe you ever did, honey.” 

“ But they will believe it, Monica ! They will believe 
it ! Oh, what will become of me ? How can I face any- 
body ? Oh, if Pony had not hurt herself, she would 
have taken me far, far away, where no one would have 
reproached me ! where I could have lived and reared 
my child in peace until I could have proved to every 
one that I had not sinned. But it is too late now — too 
late ! Oh, why could I not have died ? Why do I still 
live ? Oh, Monica, I did not take enough to kill me ! I 
didn’t take enough, though I took all that was in the 
bottle !” 

“ Oh, hush, hush, honey ! You don’t know what 
you’s taking about,” answered the old nurse, weeping. 

“ Oh, yes, I do, Monica ! I know too well. Where is 
my baby, Monica ? I do not see it. I wrapped it in a 
shawl and laid it by my side, and patted it until it went 
to sleep. Then I took the laudanum and went to sleep 
too ; but I never expected to wake again ; and to think 
I have waked before the baby ! Isn’t it strange it 
sleeps so long ?” 

“ Little young babies is just like little young kittens, 
honey. You know they sleeps most of the time,” 
replied Monica, adding within herself this comment : 

“ I knowed she couldn’t a knowed what she was doing 
when she ’stroyed the life of her own child ! I knowed 
afore, and now I’m convinced of it.” 

“ Well, any way, they can’t kill me for being the 
mother of my baby ; and at last, I can take it 


“ Em. 


1 1 8 


home to my own house, at Wynde Slopes, and live 
there in peace, if not in happiness,” sighed Emolyn, 
with a sort of dreary and desperate resignation, as she 
closed her eyes, covering them with her hands. 

Mrs. Warde, from her covert in the window, signed to 
Monica that now was her chance to withdraw the child. 

Monica stooped cautiously over Emolyn, and lifted 
the little body from its place near the wall, and was in 
the act of removing it, when the eyes of the sensitive 
mother opened, and she quickly inquired : 

“ What are you doing with my baby, Monica ?” 

“ Only taking it away to tend to it, honey. You know 
babies ’quire ’tention,” replied the woman, trembling at 
the fear of discovery. 

“ But it is not awake ! It is asleep ! Put it down 
here, Monica ! I insist upon it !” she said, rising on her 
elbow, and, for the first time, getting sight of the little 
distorted corpse. 

“ Oh ! what is that ? What is the matter with my 
baby ? Why does the little head hang so helplessly ?” 
she cried, taking the tiny body from the paralyzed 
hands of the frightened nurse and pressing it to her 
bosom. 

“ Oh ! it is cold ! It is stiff ! It is dead ! dead !” she 
gasped, laying the little form on the counterpane under 
her eyes, and staring at it, while she continued to cry : 

“ Oh ! look at its poor, little neck, Monica ! look ! look! 
Oh ! who has done this cruel, cruel thing ? This wicked, 
wicked deed ? It was alive and well when I wrapped 
it in my shawl and patted it to sleep. And now look at 
it ! Oh, look ! Look at its poor little neck! I wouldn’t 
have minded it so very much if it had died of its own self ! 
But so! Oh, the pity of it ! Oh, Monica, why don’t 
you tell me who did this fiendish deed !” 

“ Oh, my dear young lady, if I was bound to the 


An Awakening to Despair. 119 


stake and thumb-screwed, I couldn’t tell you, ’cause woe 
is me ! I don’t know. I never saw the poor, little thing 
until a little while ago, when it was lying just where I 
took it from this minute.” 

“ Oh, the pity! the pity of it ! Who could have had 
the hard heart to hurt such a poor, little, harmless, help- 
less creature as this ?” she moaned, taking the tiny hands 
and pressing them to her lips, while her tears fell fast 
upon the little, cold, unconscious face. 

“ Should not this be stopped ?” whispered Mrs. Warde 
to the doctor. 

“ Not yet. The paroxysm will pass away, and she 
will be the better for it,” he replied. 

“ Paroxysm ! Can you not see that this is acting ?” 

“ No, I do not think it is acting. It may be remorse.” 

“ Remorse may cause her tears and lamentations, but 
not her words. They are dictated by policy, since they 
accuse some other hand than her own of the death of 
her child,” said Mrs. Warde, with malignant persist- 
ency. 

“She may not really be conscious of having injured it. 
She may have done the fatal deed during a temporary 
fit of insanity,” pleaded the doctor. 

“ I wish I could think so. I wish I could find insan- 
ity, or any other palliation, for such a heinous crime,” 
said Mrs. Warde. “ But, Doctor,, are we not culpably 
neglecting a most peremptory duty ? Should not the 
coroner be notified ?” she inquired, with an ill-concealed, 
malignant haste to precipitate the catastrophe of 
Emolyn’s destruction. 

“ Presently. There is time enough. I will hold my- 
self responsible for the performance of that painful 
duty ; but let the poor girl have time to make her 
moan over her child — or her crime — if you will call it 
so,” said the doctor, sorrowfully. 


120 


‘ Em . 


No more words passed between them at the time ; 
but both from their covert listened to the lamentations 
of the poor young mother, over the dead body of the 
babe, for Emolyn was still weeping bitterly and repeat- 
ing, with endless repetitions, as mourners will, the bur- 
den of her woe. 

At length, however, the passion of grief exhausted 
itself for the time being and she resigned the tiny 
corpse to Monica, and lay back upon her pillow, calm 
from prostration. 

Then Monica brought the little body and laid it on a 
pillow, and placed it on the top of a table and covered 
it over with a sheet. 

“ Now, then,” said the doctor, “ I will go and notify 
the coroner ; but I hope they will not insist on holding 
the inquest in this room,” he added in a whisper, as he 
took up his hat, bowed to the lady, and silently left the 
apartment. 

Mrs. Warde, with a sign to Monica to keep upon her 
watch, quietly followed the doctor’s example, and stole 
away from the scene of so much distress, to the refuge 
of her own chamber. 

Later in the day, the coroner, accompanied by the 
family physician, arrived at Green Point. 

They went up stairs and entered the chamber so 
silently as not to disturb its occupant, who lay with her 
face turned to the wall, not asleep, but in the collapse 
of sorrow, the lethargy of despair. 

The doctor turned down the sheet, and .showed the 
dead infant, with a black and blue circle around the 
tender throat. 

Both looked on pityingly for a moment, and then 
gazed into each other’s faces and sadly shook their 
heads. 

Then the doctor covered the pathetic form, and they 


I 2 I 


An Awakening to Despair. 


both left the room as quietly as they had entered 
it. 

After closing - the door behind them, Dr. Willet turned 
to the coroner and said : 

“ Mr. Wright, I am constrained to tell you that the 
inquest cannot take place in that chamber without im- 
minent peril to my patient’s life.” 

“ Sir,” said the coroner, who was a stern man, “ can 
the inquest take place anywhere without imminent 
peril to your patient’s life ? Infanticide is a capital 
crime, punishable by death, as it should be. Who 
could look at that pitiable little victim and not assent 
to the justice of the law ?” 

“ Do you think that any mother could destroy her 
own child, unless she were insane and morally irrespon- 
sible ?” gravely, rebukingly inquired the doctor. 

“ Sir, I have been coroner here for fifteen years, and 
have sent more than one case of this kind up to the 
grand jury. But all this is premature. Now, although 
it would be the regular process to hold the inquest on 
the body in the room where the child met its death, yet 
if you think the disturbance would be dangerous to 
your patient in her present condition, of course the body 
can be removed to some room below stairs, and the 
inquest may be held there,” concluded the coroner, as 
they reached the ground-floor of the house. 

The drawing-room was finally selected as the scene 
of the investigation. 

The little corpse was brought down quietly to that 
place, and laid upon a table standing in the middle of 
the floor, 

A jury was summoned and sworn, and witnesses were 
called. 

There were but two persons capable of giving legal 
evidence in this case — Mrs. Warde and Doctor Willet. 


122 


“ Em 


The two others — the nurse, .Melpomene, and the house- 
keeper, Monica, who could have thrown more or less 
light upon the subject — were excluded upon the score 
of color ; for those were the days, not so far away, 
when negroes could not give lawful testimony in the 
cases of white persons. 

The first witness called was Malvina Wyndeworth 
Warde, who, being duly sworn, testified that on the 
afternoon of the preceding day, she had left her late 
father’s ward, Emolyn WyndewoYth, slightly indisposed 
in bed, in her chamber ; that she had not seen her 
since until the forenoon of the present day, when she 
was startled by the sudden outcries of the servant- 
woman, Monica, who begged her to come to Miss 
Emolyn’s room ; that she had hastened thither and dis- 
covered what she had at first supposed to be the dead 
bodies of the woman and child ; that, without allowing 
them to be touched, she had immediately sent for the 
family physician, Doctor Willet, who promptly arrived 
upon the scene. 

Being here asked by a juror whether she had posses- 
sed any knowledge of her ward’s state of health or con- 
dition previous to the discovery of the morning, she 
answered that she had not ; that so well had the girl 
guarded her secret that she had no knowledge of it. 

The next witness called was Doctor Willet, who testi- 
fied that he had been summoned to the house by Mrs. 
Warde ; that he had found the child before them quite 
dead from strangulation ; the mother in a deep opium 
sleep resembling death ; that he had succeeded in rous- 
ing the mother, who, on coming to herself exhibited 
great distress on discovering the death of her child. 

The doctor was permitted to retire without cross- 
examination. 

The jury deliberated for a few moments, and then 


In Custody. 


i 


came to a unanimous decision and rendered their ver- 
dict : 

That the child came to her death by strangulation at 
the hands of her mother, Emolyn Wyndeworth. 

A warrant was immediately made out for the arrest 
of the accused. 


CHAPTER XII. 

IN CUSTODY. 

She ? what she answered ? As I live. 

She never thought of such a thing 
As answer possible to give ! 

What says the body, when they spring 
Some monstrous torture-engine's whole 
Force upon it ? No more says the soul ! 

Robert Browning. 

When these facts became known to the household, the 
greatest consternation orevailed among them. 

The servants looked at each other’s faces in dumb dis- 
may. That their little mistress, Emolyn Wyndeworth, 
a mere child herself should be the mother of a child was 
in itself sufficiently amazing ; but that she should be 
charged with murder was simply incomprehensible ! 

An ominous silence fell upon them. Instead of chat- 
tering over this calamity as they might have done over 
any less misfortune, they went mutely about their busi- 
ness, seeming to wonder who might next unexpectedly 
fall under the ban of the law, and for what ! 

Mrs. Warde in the privacy of her own chamber, smiled 
grimly to herself. 

“ It is not exactly what I meant,” she muttered, in- 


24 


“ Em. 


wardly ; “ not exactly what I meant, but it will do. I 
thought the contents of that bottle of laudanum, pro- 
cured by herself, must have ended all her earthly woes. 
It has not, but this will do as well ; for if the law does 
not take her life, terror will kill her ! She can never 
survive the fright of her arrest or the horror of her trial. 
Emolyn Wyndeworth will die, and I shall be mistress of 
Wynde Slopes ! Yet it is very, very awful ! much more 
so than anything I could have planned, or would have 
planned, even to secure Wynde Slope ! Bah ! I will not 
think of it ! After all, it was fate, not I, that arranged 
this catastrophe,” she concluded, with a shudder, as she 
went to a small cabinet and drew forth a bottle of cog- 
niac and a wine-glass, filled the latter with brandy, and 
drank it off. 

“Yes, it is worse than I could have foreseen !” she 
said again. And then she poured out another glass of 
brandy, and drank that. 

“After all, what is the use of thinking?” she asked 
herself ; “ the matter has gone beyond my control. At 
least, I could not save her without sacrificing my own 
honor and liberty ! No, it is not likely that I would do 
that to save mine enemy’s life ! though it was the very 
cowardice of taking life that led me to plan as I did ! 
And now to think ! — But I will not think. ‘ What is 
past remedy is past regret.’ ” 

And here the woman poured out a third glass of 
brandy and drank it. 

Then she tottered to the chamber door and locked it, 
tottered back to her bed, threw herself down and for- 
got the pangs of conscience in a deep sleep. 

Meanwhile, Dr. Willet, on hearing the verdict of the 
coroner’s jury, hastened to the magistrate by whom the 
warrant for Emolyn Wyndeworth’s arrest was being 
made out, and rather abruptly demanded : 


In Custody . 


1 2 5 


“ I suppose, sir, you will admit that the law does not 
require that this unhappy girl, Emolyn Wyndeworth, 
should suffer death without a trial ?” 

The magistrate looked up from his deep preoccupa- 
tion, and rubbed his forehead with a puzzled air as he 
gazed at the speaker. 

Dr. Willet repeated his question. 

“ I don’t know what you mean ! Suffer death with- 
out a trial ? Surely that is not what you say ?” said the 
dull but honest Peter Corbin, still staring at the phy- 
sician. 

“ Yes, sir, that is just what I say, and this is just what 
I mean — Emolyn Wyndeworth is my patient.. She is 
now lying in a very critical condition. Any excitement 
would be very dangerous to her life. The shock of an 
arrest would cause her death. That is my opinion, as 
her medical attendant.” 

“Well, Doctor, you must give me that opinion in 
writing and under oath. And then I will detail two 
officers to hold her in custody, by watching her doors, 
until she can be safely brought away.” 

“Thanks, that will do,” answered Dr. Willet, who 
then immediately took pen and ink, wrote out his medi- 
cal certificate with his own hand, signed and proved it, 
and gave it into the keeping of the magistrate. 

Two police officers— one of them bearing the warrant 
for Emolyn Wyndeworth’s arrest, with instructions to 
hold it until she should be in a condition to appear 
before the magistrate and then to execute it, — were 
detailed to go to Green Point and watch the doors of 
the accused. 

Dr. Willet went hurriedly in advance to prepare the 
inmates of the house for their arrival. 

He asked for Mrs. Warde, but was told that that lady 
was fast asleep in her room, and could not be dis-turbed. 


So then he went down himself to open the doors to 
the officers of the law, and to conduct them up stairs. 

“ It is necessary for me to see my prisoner,” said the 
officer who bore the warrant, and who was a very 
respectable-looking, middle-aged man, with gray hair. 

“ You may do so. She is sleeping now, and you can 
enter her room and view, without disturbing her,’’ 
answered the doctor, who, on arriving at the chamber 
door, silently opened it and went in the room, signing 
the officers to follow him. 

They all went silently up to the bed, where the 
sleeper was still watched by old Monica, who sat 
half stupefied on the easy-chair at the head of the 
bed. 

“ So this is the girl, Emolyn Wyndeworth,” said the 
elder officer, stooping down and gazing at the white 
and wasted face of the once beautiful maiden. 

“ This is the young lady.” 

The officer sighed and turned to inspect the room. 
He looked at the windows and found them safe, being 
three stories high, and a sheer descent of sixty feet to 
the sidewalk. Then he examined the other outlets 
from the room, and found but two — one into an inner 
dressing-room without another door, and one into the 
hall. 

“ There is but one door to be guarded,” he said. “We 
will take up our post in the hall outside.” 

And with that he beckoned his comrade and retreated 
from the chamber. 

Subsequently a sofa was placed in the hall, so that, 
at night, one officer might sleep while the other 
watched. 

That afternoon everything was very quiet in the 
house of the tragedy. 

Emolyn Wyndeworth lay, scarcely breathing, on her 


In Custody. 


127 


bed, watched by the physician and nurse, while her 
door was guarded by the policemen, who sat silent, or 
conversed only in low tones. 

Mrs. Warde was heavily sleeping off the effects of 
her overdose of alcohol. 

In the back parlor below stairs lay the body of the 
little babe, whom the undertaker had already prepared 
for burial, and placed in its tiny coffin. 

The two young negroes, Philip and Phillis, sat in the 
kitchen alone, and “ waiting orders,” but too much 
frightened to move or speak. 

While everything was so quiet inside the house of 
woe, the latter was the one subject of excitement, the 
one theme of discourse, in the city outside. 

The evening papers were full of the reports and de- 
tails of “The Tragedy at Green Point.” “Shocking 
Occurrence !” “ Most Distressing Case of Infanticide !” 
and so forth, and so forth, as it was variously styled in 
the different journals. 

The night passed very silently. 

The next day the body of the little infant was quietly 
committed to its nameless grave in the cemetery ; but 
Emolyn knew nothing of all this ; she lay too ill to take 
cognizance of any occurrence around her. 

For three days the unfortunate young girl lay hover- 
ing between life and death. On the fourth she awoke 
to half consciousness and inquired, petulantly, for her 
dear nurse, Melpomene. 

Then the doctor promised that the nurse should be 
forthcoming immediately. 

He went to seek Mrs. Warde and told her that old 
Monica was quite worn out with watching, and that 
Emolyn had asked for her own attendant. 

Then Mrs. Warde explained that she had detected 
Melpomene in a theft, and had caused her to be locked 


128 


“ Em." 


•up ; but that the horrible discovery made three days be- 
fore had caused her to forget all about the woman. 

So saying, she drew a key from her pocket, and rang 
the bell for her man-servant. 

When Philip appeared, she gave him the key, and 
told him to go and release Melpomene. 

“ And hark you, my man,” said the doctor, “ if the 
woman knows nothing of what has occurred in the house, 
do not mention it to her ; for this affair must not be 
discussed near the sick-room.” 

“ I won’t say nothing, Marse Doctor,” sadly replied 
Philip, as he went out. 

Nor, truth to tell, had he any cause to say anything, 
having already told Melpomene all that he dared to tell 
of the terrible trouble that had fallen upon the head of 
her unhappy young mistress. 

The way in which he happened to do it was this : 

He had not forgotten the poor prisoner in the cellar- 
closet, as had Mrs. Warde. He remembered her first at 
supper-time on the night she was locked up. Fearing 
to ask his stern mistress any favor, he just prepared 
some food and took it to Pony’s door. He could not 
open that door, but above it there was a window with a 
revolving shutter, for ventilating the closet. 

Philip rolled an empty barrel to the door, turned it 
up on end, climbed upon it, and brought his face on 
a level with the ventilator, which he immediately 
opened. 

“ Oh, thank goodness, Phil., you give me a breath of 
air !” said the voice of Pony from below. 

“ I fotch yer somfin else beside that. Here, now 
stand right under while I let down dis basket with a 
cord. Here, now, here’s a coffee-pot full of coffee, with 
a cork in the spout to keep it from spilling, and here’s 
bread and meat, and a paper of sugar, and a bottle of 



























































• * 







































« #• 












































V 


































































In Custody . 


129 


milk, and some butter, and pepper, and salt. Eat your 
supper comfortable now, gal, and when bed-time come, 
I will push through a pillow and quilt so you can sleep 
comfortable.’ ’ 

“ Oh, what a good soul you is, Philip ! But, boy, ’stead 
o' you bringing me them bedclothes, you send Phillis 
with them, which will be properer,” gratefully replied 
Melpomene. 

“ Sartainly ; now I understand that good, Miss Mel- 
pony.” 

“ But there’s one thing, Philip, that I must depend on 
your s’perior understanding for — that is to bring me 
news of my young mist’ess. I’ so feared she will come 
to some harm, while I ain't dere to watch over her.” 

“ Nebber you fear, Miss Pony. I’ll bring you news 
of your young lady,” replied the man. 

And then, at Pony’s request, Philip took the basket, 
with the empty dishes in it, bade the prisoner good- 
night, and went away, to be succeeded by Phillis, who 
brought bed-clothes and whatever other comfort or con- 
venience she could bestow upon her fellow-servant. 

The next day Philip had terrible news to bring Pony 
of her young mistress, but he had the prudence to sup- 
press half of it, and only told the woman that Miss Emo- 
lyn was very ill and was carefully attended by Dr. 
Willet and Aunt Monica. 

This filled the poor, locked-up nurse with the deepest 
anxiety, but it was a subject upon which she could not 
even question her friend too closely ; so she had to con- 
tent herself with asking him from time to time, as he 
appeared : 

“ How is Miss Emolyn ?” 

And to rest satisfied with his vague answer : 

“ ’Bout de same or : “ A little better.” 

On this fourth morning, Philip, instead of climbing 


“ Em' 


130 


on the top of the barrel and looking in at the ventilator 
over the door, boldly unlocked the door and entered the 
closet, exclaiming : 

“ Hooray ! Pony ! Your young mist’ess is better, and 
has axed for you, and de doctor — Marse Doctor Willet, 
you know — says as she must have you !” 

“Ah! Ps so glad! And you’s come to ’liver me 
from my prison ? Glory ! Now I wonder how that old 
hyena thinks I been living all this time ! I reckon she 
’spects to see me starved, and half dead ; as I would a 
been only for you, Phil. !” exclaimed Pony, as she came 
joyously forth from her prison, and followed her friend 
up stairs. 

“ I tell you what,” whispered the boy, as they reached 
the landing and approached the parlor, 

“ Ole mist’ess been lookin’ scared ! I misdoubt as 
she thinks she’s been a doing somefin unlawful, locking 
you up, and starving you to death ! Now, I reckon, she 
won’t only be s’prised, but ri^ht down ’lieved in her 
mind to see you lookin’ as well as you do ! But muni's 
the word, mind you ! Now here we is. I hope de 
doctor’s dere with her still.” 

“ Why ?” whispered Pony. 

“ ’Cause his being dere will keep her in order,” mut- 
tered Philip, as he opened the door. 

The doctor was “ there with her still.” 

“Come hither, Melpomene. You are only now 
released from your well-deserved confinement, because 
your young mistress is ill and needs your services. She 
has asked for you, in fact,” said Mrs. Warde, as the two 
negroes entered. 

“ Very well, madam, I shall be glad to wait on my 
young mistress,” answered Melpomene, in so firm and 
free a voice that Mrs. Warde glanced up with surprise 


In Custody. 


* 3 * 


that, in seeing how well her supposed famishing pris- 
oner looked, grew to astonishment. 

She was too prudent to express her feeling in words, 
however, so she only said : 

“ Go up to your mistress’s room and relieve Monica, 
who is there.” 

Melpomene slightly bent her head and turned to 
go- 

“ Excuse me, madam. I will have to speak to this 
woman, and give her some instruction before sending 
her to my patient,” said the doctor, rising and follow- 
ing Melpomene. 

He overtook her in the hall. 

“ Come in here, my good girl. I have a word to say 
to you,” whispered the doctor, as he led the way to the 
little study, where, once upon a time, old Captain 
Wyndeworth used to retire to study out new salads, 
sauces and punches, with which to surprise, delight, 
and regale his guests, the boon companions of his 
bachelor-hall days. 

“Now, Melpomene, tell me, are you aware of what 
has occurred in this house during the three days of 
your incarceration ?” 

“Yes, sir, my young mistress has been very ill 
indeed.” 

“ Do you know what has been the matter with 
her ?” 

“ I kinder think I do, sir.” 

“ You have, perhaps, known the state of her health 
previous to this illness ?” 

“ Only for about a week past, sir.” 

“ She must have kept her secret with unusual success ! 
Then that is all you know ?” 

“ Yes, sir ; but I would like to ask — ” 

“ Well, what ?” 


i3 2 


“ Em. 


“ Excuse me, sir ; but now I have heard that my mis- 
tress is safe, I would like to ask, but it would be taking 
too great a liberty — ” 

Here Pony became silent ; but the doctor, divining 
the cause of her anxiety, said : 

“ You would like to ask what has become of the 
child ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ The unfortunate child is dead and buried. That is 
why I called you out here, that you may not be surprised 
by anything you may hear into any outcry that may 
disturb your mistress. You must not be surprised at 
the appearance of a couple of policemen in the upper 
hall. They are on duty there.” 

Here Pony suddenly turned so ashen gray that the 
doctor hastened to tell her that there was no real cause 
for alarm. Then softening matters as much as possible, 
he informed her of the manner of the babe’s death, 
and the necessity of an investigation by the proper 
authorities ; but that it would be a mere form, for 
there was no doubt the unhappy mother would be 
declared to have been insane, and, upon that plea, would 
be set at liberty. 

Pony could utter no word of reply to all this. She 
stood facing the doctor with the same ashen-gray hue 
that had overspread her visage at the first intimation 
of the unnatural and horrible crime with which her 
gentle young mistress stood charged. 

“ I have told you all this to guard you against any 
sudden shock that might cause exclamations or outcries 
in the presence of your mistress which might prove fatal 
to her in her present precarious condition. Pray, now, 
use all your powers of self-control for her sake. She 
does not know yet that she is accused of this crime, and 


In Custody . 


33 


is in custody of these two policemen. Guard her from 
all knowledge of these facts, as you would save her life. 
Do you think now, that you have sufficient courage to 
do all this ?” 

“ I have sufficient love for my dear unhappy child to 
do anything in the world for her sake,” answered Pony 
in a firm voice, though her cheek was yet a shade paler. 

“ Then you may go up to her at once,” said Dr. Willet. 

Pony went out of the study, but paused at the foot of 
the stairs, to lift up one earnest, silent prayer for 
strength to do her most difficult duty. 

Then she hurried up to the room of her mistress. 

She saw the two policemen on guard at the door. She 
passed them with a shudder, and entered the room, 
where she found old Monica still on the watch by the 
bedside. 

“ Ah ! this is a pitiful sight,” whispered the old woman, 
pointing to the pallid form on the bed, as Melpomene 
approached. “ But, hush-sh-sh! she has dropped asleep 
again, and it is as much as her life is worth to wake her. 
You just slip into my chair when I slip out.” 

This exchange was silently effected and Monica went 
from the chamber, leaving Melpomene on the watch. 

Dr. Willet had left the house to go on his morning 
round among his other patients. 

Mrs. Warde was sitting alone in her parlor, when her 
footman entered bringing a visitor’s card upon a small 
salver. 

The widow took it with a frown, exclaiming fretfully : 

“ Now I wonder who has the bad taste to call on me 
at such a time as this ?” 

She glanced at the name on the card, started, turned 
pale, and then, with a darker frown, gazed more atten- 
tively. 


134 


“ Em .” 


Yes, she had seen aright ! It was no mistake ! The 
card bore the name of 

LEWIS BERNERS, 

ATTORNEY AT LAW, 

Blackville , Va. 

It was the last name as its owner was the last person, 
she would have wished to see in this world. 

She dropped the card upon her lap and sank back in 
her chair, covering her face with her hands. 

She sat thus until her waiting servant inquired res- 
pectfully : 

“ What must I say to the gentleman, madam ?” 

She started as if from a dream. 

“ There is no escape ! I must see him !” she mur- 
mured to herself. “ Tell him to come in,” she said 
aloud. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

DOOM. 

Death should come 

Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, 

As light winds, wandering through groves of bloom, 
Detach the delicate blossoms from the tree. 

Bryant. 

The door opened, and Lewis Berners entered the 
room. 

He was a tall spare man, with a thin, fair face, and 
wavy, gray hair and beard. 

He wore a dusty, brown travelling suit, and carried a 
soft felt cap in his hand. 


Doom. 


135 


He looked, at the same time, wearied, hurried and ex- 
cited. 

He strode across the floor, and stood before the lady, 
and without the slightest salutation, sternly demanded : 

“ In the name of Heaven, madam, what is this ter- 
rible calamity that you have suffered to fall upon this 
child, Emolyn Wyndeworth ?” 

“ She is no longer a child, but a woman, and a crim- 
inal ; and her calamity, as you call it, is but the conse- 
quence,” said Mrs. Warde, coldly and defiantly. 

“ ‘ A woman, and a criminal,’ at fifteen years of age !” 
indignantly exclaimed Mr. Berners. 

“ Beg pardon ; Emolyn Wyndeworth is nearly six- 
ee .’ 

“ And what difference does that make ? She is a 
child ; a motherless child ; a culpably neglected child, 
I am sure, or she never could have strayed to the brink 
of such a precipice, and fallen over such an abyss, Mrs. 
Warde. About a year ago — no, not so long — about ten 
months ago, on hearing that Major Wyndeworth, my 
colleague in the guardianship of this girl, was stricken 
down with paralysis, I wrote to ask you whether Miss 
Wyndeworth had not better be sent home to me. You 
replied that she would stay at Green Point. I did not 
press the question then ; but in learning through the 
newspapers of the death of Major Wyndeworth, I 
wrote and requested that my ward should be delivered 
into my charge — into that of her only remaining 
guardian. You answered by entreating me to leave the 
child in your care at Green Point ; for that you loved 
Emolyn, and she loved her home. I yielded, somewhat 
against my better judgment, but the more readily, be- 
cause I had then some thoughts of going to Europe — 
thoughts that I put into practice very soon after. I 
have just returned from several months of foreign 


136 


“ Em. 


travel. I was but passing through this city, when I took 
up a paper and read the astounding fact that the 
daughter of the late General Wyndeworth had been 
arrested for child-murder !” 

“ She is still in this house, however, an unconscious 
prisoner in custody of two policemen, who watch her by 
turns, and so she must remain until she is well enough 
to be removed/’ 

“ Or until she dies ! That is the very best thing she 
could do, poor, poor child ! Not that I believe her guilty ! 
I know the stock she comes of too well ! One does * not 
gather thorns of fig-trees !’ No, she cannot be guilty : 
that is impossible for her ; but the bare accusation is 
more than enough to blast her life ! So it is better that 
she should die ! God is more merciful than man ! But, 
Mrs. Malvina Warde ! it were better that you had never 
been born, than that any criminal neglect or abuse on 
your part should have left or driven this motherless girl 
to her ruin !” said Lewis Berners, with terrible earnest- 
ness. 

“ How DARE you speak to me in that way ?” fiercely 
broke forth the widow. 

“ Because I know yon, madam ! And because I sus- 
pect foul play, and shall act upon my suspicions !” 

u This to a lady !” 

“ JSFo j but to an ‘ unwomaned * woman !” 

“ I cannot tell why I do not call a servant and have 
you ejected from the house !” exclaimed the widow, 
white with rage. 

“ But / know why you will not do it. I know, also, why 
you will not openly object to my sending to the hotel for 
my trunk, and taking up my quarters in this house for 
as long as I choose to stay ! That will be as long as 
my unhappy ward is permitted to remain." 


Doom . 


137 


“ Do you mean to say you will force your company 
upon me ?” 

“Not by any means. I will never even see you 
against your will. But I remain in this house just so 
long as my unhappy young ward is suffered to stay.” 

“And you call yourself a — gentleman ?” 

“ Not at all. I leave that for other people to do !” 

Malvina Warde stamped with fury. 

“ Pray do not perform a war-dance, my dear madam. 
We are not among the Comanches ! But be good 
enough to tell me the name of the physician who is 
attending Emolyn Wyndeworth ?” coolly requested the 
visitor. 

“ I shall do nothing of the sort ! You dare to thrust 
yourself into my house, and tell me that you mean to 
stay as long as you please — which will be as long as 
that wretched girl dishonors it with her presence ! 
You do this against my will, and in defiance of my pro- 
test. But if I cannot prevent you from doing this — ” 

“ You can prevent it, of course. The house is your 
own. You can prevent my staying here, if you choose 
to take the consequences. But since you yield at all, 
you should yield with grace.” 

“ I will not answer any of your questions.” 

“ Very well. I must find out for myself,” said Mr. 
Berners, rising and leaving the room. 

In the hall outside he found the footman, Philip. 

“ What doctor is attending Miss Wyndeworth ?” he 
inquired. 

“ Dr. Willet, sir.” 

“ Where does he live ?” 

“ Opposite St. Peter’s Church, sir ; on the hill, about 
a mile from here.” 

“ Very well, open the door and let me out.” 

With a bow, Philip obeyed, and Mr. Berners sprang 


‘ Em. 


138 


into the hack that was still waiting for him, and 
ordered the driver to go to the office of Dr. Willet, 
opposite St. Peter’s Church. 

A rapid drive brought them up to the doctor’s door 
just as the latter had come up in his gig. 

The two gentlemen alighted at the same moment, 
and stood looking at each other, expectantly, for an 
instant. Both bowed slightly. 

“ Dr. Willet, I hope ?” said the visitor. 

“ The same, sir, at your service.” 

“ I am Lewis Berners, of Blackville, Virginia. I am 
the guardian of your most unhappy young patient, 
Emolyn Wyndeworth. Can I have a few moments’ 
conversation with you ?’ 

“ Assuredly,” answered the doctor. 

Then giving his servant orders to keep the gig wait- 
ing, he led the way into his snug office. 

“ This is not my hour for receiving patients, so we 
will be alone and uninterrupted for some time. You 
come on account of your ward, sir ?” 

“ Yes. I have but just returned from a six months* 
tour in Europe, and only learned to-day of the terrible 
catastrophe that has occurred. Will you tell me all 
that you are at liberty to disclose?” 

“ I can tell you all that in a few days must be given 
under oath in open court,” said the doctor, as he offered 
his visitor a seat and took one himself. 

When both gentlemen were seated, the doctor gave 
the lawyer the history of the case, as far as his own 
limited knowledge of it went. 

“ And now,” said Dr. Willet, “let me end by saying 
that I do not believe that girl is in any respect guilty ! 
The more I have seen of her, during her illness, the 
surer I feel that she is, or has been, legally and 
sacredly married, and that if she hurt her own child 


D007U. 


39 


I at all, it was during some paroxysm of agony of 
insanity, that must have rendered her unconscious of, 
irresponsible for, her act. I do not believe, either, 
that a jury could be found to convict her.” 

“ And yet, great Heaven, she must be tried !” groaned 
the guardian. 

“ Most unfortunately, yes ! I have just been informed 
that the grand jury have found a true bill of indictment 
against her, and that she will be arraigned at the sum- 
mer term of the Criminal Court.” 

“ Yet she still remains at Green Point ?” 

“ Yes, because hitherto she has been too ill to be taken 
away. She is yet totally unconscious of the terrible ac- 
cusation against her. The warrant for her arrest has 
not been served upon her. It is held by a policeman 
who, with the help of a comrade, guards her door day 
and night.” 

“ How long will this reprieve last ?” 

“ But a few hours longer. I put off the evil day as 
long as possible ; but to-morrow morning she is to be 
removed.” 

“ To prison ?” 

“ To prison, if she should live through the arrest. 
But I fear the shock will kill her.” 

“ It would be better that it should.” 

“ No, no ! If she should live and be acquitted, as I 
am sure she must be, she may also be able, at some 
future time, to quite vindicate herself. I have done my 
utmost to save her life and to prepare her (physically I 
mean) to sustain the shock. I have given her tonics to 
increase her strength, and sedatives to lower her sensi- 
tiveness and excitability. I shall keep up this treatment 
until to-morrow morning ; then I shall have to break to 
her as tenderly as possible the intelligence of that which 


140 


“Em l 


is awaiting her ; and— I would be better satisfied if you 
would consent to be present at the interview.” 

“ Of course, since you permit it, I shall remain at 
Green Point until she is removed. Then I will take 
lodgings near the court-house and prison, so as to be 
always near her. If she should survive this terrible or- 
deal I shall take her down to Blackville to my sister’s ; 
or I may even go abroad again and take her with me.” 

“ But that would be a great sacrifice of your time.” 

“ No, I have retired from my profession. A childless 
widower like myself, with two elderly sisters well pro- 
vided for, has no special inducement to hard labor in 
his latter days. Besides, under any circumstances, I 
would do much more than I have promised for my dear 
friend, Wynde worth’s daughter.” 

“ I am going back to Green Point immediately after 
dinner. Since you also are bound thither, I hope that 
you will stop and dine with me, and then take a seat in 
my gig,” said the doctor. 

The visitor accepted the invitation as frankly as it 
was offered, and just stepped to the door to pay and dis- 
charge the carriage. 

An hour later the doctor and guest, having dined 
together, took their seats in the gig and drove over to 
Green Point. 

“Can I be permitted to visit my ward this evening?” 
inquired Mr. Berners, as he followed Dr. Willet into the 
house. 

“ I will see her first. But tell me, did you ever meet 
her personally ?” 

“ Intimately, when she was a child of from five to 
seven. I was a great favorite in those days.” 

“ Come up stairs. There is a sofa in the hall outside 
her room. If you will not mind the proximity of the 


Doom. 


14 


policemen you can take a seat there, for a few minutes 
when I go in.” 

The visitor bowed, and accompanied the doctor up 
stairs and to the door of Emolyn’s chamber. 

But before Dr. Willet could turn the latch one of the 
officers advanced to him and said : 

“ I am very sorry, sir, but I am directed to take my 
prisoner to-morrow morning.” 

“ I know it. The grand jury have indicted her, and 
of course, she must be removed. I will try to prepare 
her for the change,” replied the doctor, with a grave 
nod, as he passed into Emolyn’s room. 

He found his young patient awake and in conver- 
sation with her nurse, Melpomene, who was seated by 
her side. 

The woman arose and gave way to the physician. 

“ How do you feel this evening, my child ?” inquired 
Dr. Willet, seating himself in the vacated chair and 
taking the girl’s hand in his own. 

“ I am getting stronger. I am going to live — more 
is the pity,” answered Emolyn, in a quiet, depressed 
tone. 

“ But you should not say that. You should be glad 
and thankful that your life is spared.” 

Emolyn shook her head. 

( “ Every one believes evil of me— evil that I do not 
(deserve. I have broken no law. I have failed in no 
duty. I was a wife before I was a mother. Every one 
bught to know that, for how on earth do they suppose 
I could have been a mother without having been a 
Wife?” she inquired, opening wide her large, blue eyes. 

“ How, indeed !” gravely responded the doctor. 
“ But, my dear, the time has come now when you should 
have no secrets from your friends ; when you should 


142 


“ Em. 


give them the means of vindicating you. Tell me, who 
was your husband, my dear ?” 

“ I cannot tell you now — except this, that he has 
passed away from the earth. His father lives — a child- 
less old man. I ought to have told him long ago, but I 
was afraid of him ; when I get well, however, I will 
tell him first. If he believes me, if he accepts me, then 
I will let every one know. If he disbelieves and rejects 
me, then I will bury my secret in the grave of my hus- 
band, since I have no way of proving my marriage.” 

“ Well, my child, we will talk no more on this subject 
to-night. To-morrow I may be able to persuade you to 
confide in your friends.” 

“ Ah, Doctor, what friends have I, apart from you and 
my poor nurse, Melpomene ?” said Emolyn, with quiet 
sadness. 

“ My dear, do you not remember the friends of your 
early childhood ?” 

“ Oh, yes ! but they are all gone — all gone !” 

“ Not all ! Do you remember Lewis Berners of Black - 
ville ?” 

Emolyn paused for a moment, murmuring : 

“ Lew — is Ber — ners ?” 

Then, as a soft light broke over her face, she said : 

“ Oh, yes, yes, certainly I do — the good old friend of 
my dear father and mother, dear old Lewis Berners — 
yes.” 

“ Would you like to see him ?” 

“ Yes, indeed I would,” she answered, earnestly, but 
without excitement, for she was still under the influence 
of the sedatives the doctor had given her. 

“Then you shall see him to-night, for he is outside, 
waiting your permission to enter.” 

“ Bring him in at once, Dr. Willet. It will make me 
feel like a child again to see him,” she said. Then, as 


Doom. 


H3 


by a sudden flash of memory, she added : “ But 0I1 ! 
does he know ?” 

“ Yes, my dear, he knows as much as I do, and he be- 
lieves as I do.” 

“Thank Heaven ! Let him come in.” 

Dr. Willet left the room, and soon returned with the 
gray-haired lawyer, who came up to the bedside with as 
much composure as he could command, and took the 
extended hand of Emolyn, saying : 

“ I am sorry to see that you have been ill, my dear.” 

But his voice trembled and broke down, even in utter- 
ing these very commonplace words. 

“ Uncle Lewis, it is so long since I saw you ! I should 
have expected to see quite an old man, but you don’t 
look a day older than you did when you used to ride me 
on your shoulder,” was the answer of his ward. 

“ That was nine years ago, Emolyn. You were a child 
of seven years then ; now you are a girl of sixteen. I 
was then a man of forty-one, now I am fifty. So you see 
the change would very naturally be very great in you, 
but little in me.” 

“ I thought you had quite forgotten me, Uncle Lewis.” 

“ I have been travelling since the death of your senior 
guardian, my love ; and believing you to be safe and 
happy in the care of your kinswoman, I gave myself too 
little concern. But now, my dear girl, just as soon as 
you shall be able to travel, I shall assert my claims as 
your only surviving guardian, and take you down to Vir- 
ginia with me, and either place you in charge of my 
sisters, or else install you at Wynde Slopes with a care- 
ful governess.” 

“Oh, I wish you would! Oh, how I wish you 
would !” exclaimed Emolyn, clasping her hands and 
speaking with an energy she had not exhibited during 
the interview. 


i 4 4 


“ Em. 


“Well, there ! Don’t excite yourself, my dear. I 
will. I certainly will. I give you my word for it,” said 
Lewis Berners, earnestly. 

“ Now, sir, I fear I must really turn you out of the 
room. My patient must have repose. I shall give her 
a sleeping draught in a few minutes,” said Dr. Willet, 
kindly, but firmly. 

“ Quite right. I acknowledge the necessity. You 
will find me in the hall outside when you want me,” 
good-humoredly replied the visitor. 

Then turning to Emolyn, he said : 

“ I hope you will sleep well, my child. Heaven 
bless you. Good-night.” 

As Mr. Berners left the room, Melpomene entered 
with a small waiter on which stood a bowl of beef-tea 
and a plate of dry toast. 

“ That is right, nurse. You must feed your patient 
well,” said the doctor, as, with his own hands, he placed 
a little stand beside the bed. 

Pony put her waiter down upon it. 

Then it required the united efforts of the physician 
and the nurse to prevail on Emolyn to partake of these 
nourishing refreshments. But Dr. Willet argued, and 
Pony coaxed, until the gentle invalid had eaten all that 
was set before her. 

“ Now, nurse, in an hour from this you must give 
her this composing draught, and if she should not fall 
asleep within an hour from the time she takes it, you 
must come down into the study and let me know. I 
shall wait there until ten o’clock. It is eight now. Do 
you understand ? And can you follow my direc- 
tions ?” 

“ Yes, sir. Oh, yes, sir,” answered Pony. 

“ Good-night, my dear. Keep yourself quiet. I 


Doom. 


145 


shall see you again to-night, sleeping or waking,” said 
Dr. Willett, as he left the room. 

He found Mr. Berners waiting for him in the hall. 

“ Come ! let us go down into the study. We have 
much to discuss. I shall remain here until ten o’clock, 
at least — perhaps all night,” said the doctor. 

Mr. Berners arose to 'follow him; but Dr. Willet 
suddenly paused, saying : 

“ Stop ! I have a question to ask this officer. 

“ Tell me at what hour you have to remove this 
unhappy young lady ?” 

“ It is somewhat at discretion, Doctor. I am directed 
to take her to prison to-morrow morning. That may 
be any time before noon. I will make it as late as 
I can,” replied the policeman. 

“ Thanks. That is all. Come, Mr. Berners.” 

With these words the physician led the way down 
stairs to that curious little study in which the late Cap- 
tain Wyndewortli used to read, not books of history or 
science, but of cookery ; where he used to study, not 
political or social philosophy, but sauces, salads, and 
punches ! 

“ Sit down here, Mr. Berners,” said the doctor, push- 
ing the late captain’s easy chair toward the visitor, and 
throwing himself into a rocker, and then continuing : 

“ I have had many disagreeable duties to perform in 
my life — they belong to my profession — but the most 
painful part I have ever had to play, is to prepare my 
poor patient for the shock of her arrest ! To-night I 
have done my best to insure her eight or ten hours of 
refreshing sleep. That will strengthen her. To-mor- 
row, after she has breakfasted, I will break to her the 
news of this accusation ! But, ah, Heaven ! how can I 
break it so that it will not be a fatal blow when it falls ?” 

“We must go to her together. We must assure her 


146 


“ Em. 


upon oath, if necessary, that her arrest and trial will be 
only forms ; that she is in no sort of danger ; that her 
acquittal is certain ; that after her release she shall go 
down to Virginia and live in peace ; or, if she should 
prefer it, she shall go across the ocean and make the 
tour of Europe. We must support her and encourage 
her through this terrible trial — this horrible ordeal !” 
said Lewis Berners. 

“ But — you are a lawyer and better able to judge of 
what the law may or may not do, in this case. Are you 
so certain of an acquittal ?” 

“ Have you in your narrative given me all the facts ?” 

“ All, so far as I know them. All, I think, that will 
come before the jury.” 

“ Then I may say I feel quite sure of her acquittal. 
As her guardian, I shall of course employ the best, the 
most experienced counsel to be procured. No expense 
shall be spared.” 

“ The girl has been married. Ah, if she could only be 
induced to tell us the name of her husband.” 

“ We must persuade her to do so,” said Mr. Berners. 

At this moment the door opened and Melpomene 
entered, saying : 

“ My mistress has fallen into a deep sleep, Doctor.” 

“ What ! you have not given her the composing 
draught so soon after her food ?” 

“ Oh, no, sir ; she dropped into a deep sleep without 
it. That is the reason why I came to let you know.” 

“ Very well. Do not disturb her ; but if she should 
wake up and be restless, give her the draught.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ And I will look in on her before I leave the house. ” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Melpomene, as she courtesied 
and withdrew. 

The two men talked on until eleven o’clock, when the 


Revelation. 


147 


doctor arose to go ; but first he said that he would 
visit his patient. 

He stepped silently up the stairs, and found her fast 
asleep. Then he came down, bid good-night to Mr. 
Berners, and departed. 

Lewis Berners, for want of better accommodations in 
this now inhospitable house, stretched himself on the 
study sofa, to rest his weary frame, but without a hope of 
forgetting his troubles in sleep. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

REVELATION. 

Hope, precious pearl, in sorrow’s cup 
Unmelted at the bottom lay, 

To shine again when, all drunk up, 

The bitterness should pass away. Moore. 

Lewis Berners arose from his uncomfortable couch at 
a very early hour, and went out into the hall to see if 
he could find a servant who could accommodate him 
with water and towels. 

He found Philip, the footman, in the act of sweeping 
off the front door-steps. 

He made his request to the man, who showed not the 
slightest surprise at the presence of the unbidden guest, 
for since the police had been in the house, Philip could 
not have been astonished at anything that might have 
happened ; but he conducted the lawyer to an upper 
bedroom, where all conveniences for the morning toilet 
were supplied to him. 

“ The doctor will be here for an early cup of coffee 


1 48 


“ Em. 


in the study, sir,” began Philip, “ which, if you would 
like — ” 

“ Certainly,” interrupted Mr. Berners, quickly, “ I 
would like to breakfast with the doctor ; ” whereupon 
the man left the room. 

When the visitor had refreshed himself, he went down 
stairs to the study, where he found the doctor already 
seated at a little breakfast-table. 

“ Sit down. Sit down and join me in a cup of coffee. 
I have just been up to see my patient. I find that she 
has slept soundly through the night. She must not be 
waked. The sleep will brace her up,” said Dr. Willet, 
as he stretched out his hand and drew up a chair for 
Mr. Berners. 

“ I hope so ; she will need all the strength she can 
get,” sighed the lawyer, as he seated himself. 

Notwithstanding their anxiety, the two gentlemen 
did ample justice to the substantial breakfast of hot 
bread and beefsteak that Philip thought proper to bring 
also with the coffee. 

“ It is now eight o’clock,” said the doctor, consulting 
his watch as soon as their repast was concluded — “ eight 
o’clock, and she is to be removed before twelve. I will 
go and see if she is awake.” 

“ And send for me when you want me,” said Mr. Ber- 
ners. 

“ Yes, certainly.” 

Dr. Willet went up stairs to the third floor. He 
shuddered as he passed the two policemen, and remem- 
bered that when they should leave they would take his 
patient with them. 

But he passed on and rapped at Emolyn’s door. 

Melpomene opened it. 

“ Has your mistress awakened ?” he inquired. 

“Yes, sir, directly after you left the room. I have 


Revelation. 


149 


got her up and dressed, and I have given her some 
breakfast, as you ordered, sir, and now she is ready to 
see you,” Pony explained, with almost a smile on her 
worn and anxious face. 

The doctor followed the woman into the room, where 
he found Emolyn up and dressed, and reclining, sup- 
ported by pillows, in an easy-chair. 

“ I hope I find you better this morning, my child ?” 
said Dr. Willet, as he drew a chair to her side, and sat 
down ; taking her wrist in his hand to count the pulse. 

“ ‘Better ?’ Yes, Doctor. You have been so good to 
me,” replied Emolyn, so quietly that the physician per- 
ceived the sedative effect of his drugs. “ But now I 
want to speak to you about something. Will you send 
Pony out of the room ? Or no ! I will do it. Pony, go 
down stairs and get your breakfast while the doctor 
stays with me,” she added, turning her face towards her 
nurse. 

The woman went out, closing the door after her. 

“ Now, Emolyn, my dear, what have you to say 
to me ? Remember, you may tell your physician any- 
thing you please. He is bound to keep your secret 
as a priest is bound to keep the secrets of confession,” 
said the doctor, in a gentle, encouraging tone, for he 
hoped that the unfortunate young creature was about 
to confide to him the name of the man who had so 
deeply wronged her by a secret marriage. 

“ Doctor,” she began, in a whisper. “ Oh, Doctor ! 
Tell me. I have been thinking about it ever since I 
came back to my senses, but I have not dared to speak 
of it to any one— I could not bear to speak of it even to 
Pony.” 

Here she shivered, and covered her thin face with her 
hands. 


“ Em. 


150 


“ Do not distress yourself, my dear child, but tell me 
what you wish,” said Dr. Willet, kindly. 

“ I am not distressed; I am — I don’t know what ! I 
seem to have lost the power of feeling anything as I 
ought to feel it, even the piteous death of the poor baby. 
That was what I wanted to ask about, Doctor Willet, 
only I could not talk of it even to Pony. But now you 
will tell me. They buried the poor little body, did they 
not, while I was too ill to know anything about it ?” 

“ Yes, my child.” 

“ But, oh, for pity’s sake, did no one try to find out 
who hurt the poor, little, helpless, harmless child so 
that it died ?” 

“ Yes, my dear, there was an inquest ; but, as often 
happens, the jury made a mistake, and accused the 
wrong person.” 

“ Whom did they accuse — Mrs. Warde ? It is an 
awful thing to say, but she hates me, and she is the only 
one whom I could suspect of wishing harm to me, or to 
my child. Was it Mrs. Warde V' 

The words were spoken calmly, the question put with- 
out eagerness. The doctor took her wrist again and 
felt the pulse. It was beating slowly and quietly. She 
had spoken truly when she said that she seemed to have 
lost the power of feeling anything as she ought to feel 
it. She was still under the influence of that powerful 
sedative, mercifully administered by the good physician 
to deaden the sense of bodily or mental pain. 

Dr. Willet thought he might now venture to begin his 
own most distressing task. 

“ No, my child, they did not charge Mrs. Warde with 
the deed,” he answered. 

“ Who in the world else ? Not one of the poor 
colored women ? They never could have done such a 
cruel deed.” 


Revelation . 


151 


“ No, my child,” said Dr. Willet, still keeping his 
hand upon her pulse. “ No ; it was some one else, who 
might have done it accidentally or unconsciously.” 

Emoyln put her hand to her head and knit her brows 
— but still without excitement. 

“ I cannot think, then, whom they could have found 
to accuse,” she said at length, as she wearily dropped 
her hand again. 

During the silence that ensued the clock on the man- 
telpiece struck ten. 

The doctor started at the sound. In less than two 
hours the unfortunate girl must be lodged in prison. 
He must prepare her for the shock. 

“ Who have they accused of my child’s death, Doc- 
tor ?” asked Emolyn. 

“ One who could never have hurt the child, or, if she 
did, did so unconsciously. Emolyn, do you not know 
that you were very ill, probably delirious, when this 
babe was given to you ?” solemnly inquired Dr. Willet. 

“ I suppose I was. Do you mean some one came in 
while I was in that state, and unable to save my babe — 
and that they hurt it ?” 

“ No, Emolyn. They think you hurt the babe,” 
gravely replied Dr. Willet, still keeping his hand upon 
her pulse, which did not quicken the least. 

“ What did you say, Doctor Willet ? I did not quite 
hear you,” she answered, with a puzzled look. 

“ The jury charge you with hurting your babe,” re- 
peated the doctor. 

“I — I don’t understand,” slowly replied Emolyn, 
with a sorely perplexed look. 

“ Oh, my child ! my child ! they charge you, you Emo- 
lyn with having caused the death of your child. But — ” 
(the pulse under his finger stopped for about three 
seconds, and then went on a little faster than before). 


152 


“ Em. 


The doctor arose and poured out a half-glass of water, 
into which he dropped a few drops of colorless liquid 
from a vial and handed her, saying : 

“ Drink this.” 

She drank it silently. 

The doctor replaced the glass, resumed his seat, took 
her hand in his, and said : 

“ But no one believes this, Emolyn. Of course, no 
one could believe it.” 

She shook her head slowly and in silence. 

“ Still, my dear, though no one believes it of you, 
there are forms in law that must be observed. And, as 
you have been charged with this deed, my dear Emo- 
lyn, it is necessary, even for your own sake, that the 
case should be investigated, in order that you may be 
cleared — cleared, Emolyn ! For you are certain to be 
cleared. Do you understand me, my poor child ?” 

“ Oh, yes, I understand, I understand what you are 
trying to break to me, what you are trying to soften to 
me. Oh, the deep dishonor ! Oh, the deep dishonor !” 
she moaned in a quiet, almost dying voice, but without 
the nervous excitement that the sedative drug still 
subdued. 

“ Understand this, also, my child, that not a hair of 
your head shall be hurt. Your guardian, Mr. Berners, 
one of the most eminent jurists of the age, assures me 
of that, and wishes to assure you of it also. Will you 
see him now ?” 

“ Yes ; but, oh, the deep dishonor ! — oh, the deep 
dishonor ! Oh, that I could die now !” she moaned, in 
quiet, heart-broken tones. “ Oh that I could die now ! 
Oh, the deep dishonor of this day !” 

“ My child, there is no dishonor where there is no 
guilt. There may be distress, sorrow, even anguish ; 
but powerful friends will stand bv you : and above all, 


Revelation. 


153 


the Father of the fatherless will comfort and sustain 
you. And, finally, you will be vindicated.” 

She did not reply, but covered her face with her 
hands. The potent drug that had been given her by 
the good physician to dull the sense of pain, had indeed, 
quieted her nervous system so that there could be no 
violent outbreak of grief or terror or horror ; but it had 
left her intellect clear enough to perceive the awfulness 
of her position. 

“ Shall I call Mr. Berners in ?” inquired Dr. Willet. 

“ If you please,” she replied, without removing her 
hands from her face. 

Dr. Willett went to the door and beckoned the lawyer. 
Mr. Berners entered silently. 

“ She bears it better than I could have hoped,” whis- 
pered the former. 

“She looks overwhelmed — crushed,” replied the 
latter, after a glance at the unhappy girl. 

“ If I had not put her under the influence of a power- 
ful sedative, she would have been dead or mad,” whis- 
pered the doctor, as they crossed the room. 

“ My little Emolyn, my dear Emolyn, you must not 
be frightened ; you shall not be harmed. You have 
powerful friends to protect you,” said Mr. Berners, 
laying his hand, as in benediction, on the bowed young 
head — “ powerful friends to protect and defend you.” 

“ But, oh ! my friends with all their power cannot 
save me from prison, wailed the heart-broken girl. 

“ No, for they are not omnipotent, my poor child ; but 
they can make all things easy for you, and they can 
assure you of a final vindication. My dear, dear 
Emolyn, you may be inconvenienced and annoyed, but 
you cannot be endangered.” 

“ But I shall be imprisoned ! Oh ! the deep, deep 


i54 


“ Em. 


degradation of this day !” moaned the crushed child, 
who still kept her face hidden from view. 

“ There is no degradation where there is no guilt,” 
began the lawyer. 

“ So I have tried to impress upon her,” added the 
doctor. 

“Think, my child,” continued Mr. Berners, “how 
many pure and noble men and women have been 
unjustly accused, unjustly imprisoned. Has any one 
honored them less for their misfortunes ? No, but more, 
for the heroism with which they have borne them.” 

While Mr. Berners spoke the clock struck eleven. 
There was a knock at the chamber door. The doctor 
went to answer it. He found the elder of the two police- 
men, who held the warrant, waiting for him. 

Dr. Willet closed the door, and went out to speak 
with him. 

“ Sir, I am very sorry, but we must take our prisoner 
away within a few minutes. We have to deliver her by 
twelve o’clock,” said the officer. 

“ Then I will order the carriage. There will be no 
objection to her guardian and maid accompanying her, 
I presume ?” 

“ No, sir. I think not.” 

The doctor went down stairs, and sent the man-ser- 
vant to the nearest livery stable to bring a hack. Then 
he summoned Melpomene, and ordered her to get 
ready to accompany her mistress on a drive. 

The woman burst into tears. 

“ Oh, I know all about it. Nobody told me, but I 
found out by little things ; the c’roner’s quest, thep’lice 
an’ everything ! Oh, my dear, young mist’ess ! Oh, 
my dear young mist’ess, as innocent as her own baby, 
is she !” sobbed the woman. 

“ Now look here Melpomene — if that is your ridicu- 


Revelation , 


155 


lousname — you must positively control yourself ! Your 
young mistress is in no danger. There is not a jury on 
earth but who would acquit her ! But you must be a 
woman for her sake ; for you are the only woman friend 
she has on earth, I think.” 

“ Oh, I am ! I am ! I know I am ! Poor desolate 
lamb !” sobbed Pony. 

“ Then you must calm yourself for her sake ! for you 
have got to go to her now and stay with her until the 
carriage comes, and then to accompany her out. You 
must put off your howling until you find yourself alone, 
where the noise cannot disturb any one. There now, 
go and get on your bonnet, and then come to your young 
mistress.” 

Pony went sobbing away, and the doctor returned to 
Emolyn’s room. 

He found her as he had left her, sitting back in her 
easy-chair, with her hands pressed to her face. 

“ The carriage is ordered. She must leave in a few 
minutes,” whispered Dr. Willet to Mr. Berners. 

“ I know that she must. I have told her. She is 
prepared. Poor child !” murmured the lawyer, in reply. 

Something of the purport of this low tone colloquy 
reached the ears of the unhappy girl. 

Removing her hands from her face, she inquired in 
an almost inaudible voice : 

“ Dr. Willet, Uncle Lewis, may my nurse, Pony, be 
permitted to go with me?” 

“ Surely, my child,” replied the doctor, “ that has been 
thought of and provided for. She is getting ready to 
attend you, and will soon be here.” 

“ Is there any one else you would like to see before 
you go, my dear ?” inquired the lawyer. 

“ No, no one.” 

“ Not your cousin, Mrs. Warde ?” 


“ Em.” 


156 


“ Oh, no, no, not her — least of all her — never let her 
come near me !” 

At this moment Pony entered with her bonnet and 
shawl hanging over one arm, and a bundle tied up in a 
handkerchief in the other hand. 

She put all these things down, and not trusting her- 
self to speak to her young mistress, she went about the 
room collecting such articles of clothing and conven- 
ience as she supposed Emolyn would require. These 
she packed into a large valise and placed beside her 
own bundle. Then she brought a pair of boots, a wa- 
terproof cloak, a black straw hat, and a gray vail to her 
mistress, and helped her to put them on. But not a word 
was spoken between them. Neither dared trust their 
self-control through such an ordeal. 

After having dressed her mistress, Pony put on her 
own bonnet and shawl. And not too soon, as a knock 
at the chamber door soon proved. 

Dr. Willet went and opened it. 

“ The hack is before the door, sir, and we dare not 
wait another moment. It is now half-past twelve,” said 
the elder officer. 

“ I wish it were half-past doomsday !” testily retorted 
the doctor. “ But we are ready. Don’t come in. We 
will bring the poor girl out and put her in the carriage. 
You can watch us until she is there, and then you can 
ride on the box. But don’t show yourself if you can 
help it.” 

“ Lord knows, sir, I would spare the young lady and 
the family all I could,” answered the officer. 

The doctor returned to the room and whispered to the 
guardian : 

“ The hour has come. Take her arm and put her in 
the carriage. The police officer will be there, but will 
not be seen.” 


In Prison. 


157 


“ Come Emolyn, my dear, take my arm ; trust in me ; 
no harm shall happen to you. Melpomene, follow us 
with those bundles,” said Mr. Berners, as he took the 
hand of the miserable girl, lifted her from her seat and 
led her down stairs. 

The doctor accompanied them, and Melpomene, 
heavily laden, followed. 

Mr. Berners put Emolyn into the back-seat of the 
carriage, and entered and placed himself by her side. 

Melpomene followed with her burden, all of which 
she arranged around her on the front seat. 

The police officer mounted the box beside the driver 
and told him where to go. 

“ One moment,” said Dr. Willet, as he put his head 
into the open window for a few last words to Emolyn. 
“ Keep up your spirit, my child ; if it should sink, pray ! 
pray for yourself, as I shall pray for you. I will see you 
again to-night and again to-morrow morning. Heaven 
bless you ! Go on.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

IN PRISON. 

Stone walls do not a prison make. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 

An hour’s drive through the city and out to the north- 
eastern suburbs, brought the party to the gates of the 
prison, a large, square, white, stone building, shaded by 
great, green forest trees, and surrounded by a high, 
white, stone wall. The white and green of this picture, 
under the clear blue sky of this May morning, must 


158 


“ Em” 


have given it a free and cheerful aspect, but for glimpses 
of grim and grated windows, seen at intervals through 
the glimmering, green leaves. 

The carriage drew up before the gates, which, at a 
summons from the policeman, swung open. 

The carriage rolled up the broad gravel road to the 
great door of the prison. 

The policeman got down from his seat beside the 
driver, and came around to help his prisoner to alight, 
but Dr. Willet had already opened the door, sprung out, 
and lifted his patient to the ground. 

They entered the building and were gravely received 
by the warden, who led the party into his office and gave 
them chairs, while he placed himself at his desk, and 
began to write out a receipt for his new prisoner. 

Dr. Willet turned and looked at Emolyn. 

She sat near him, closely guarded, but looking 
strangely unconscious or indifferent to all that was go- 
ing on. 

The warden having signed his receipt, called a turn- 
key, and said : 

“ Conduct the prisoner to cell 45 in the women’s 
ward.” 

Then Dr. Willet stepped up to the desk saying : 

“ This unhappy young lady has been my patient for 
some weeks. She has just risen from a sick bed. I hope 
it will not be against the rules to allow her to have the 
attendance of her nurse even in her cell.” 

The warden hesitated and looked at Emolyn, and for 
the first time saw her distinctly ; he started, gazed and 
sighed, evidently struck and impressed by seeing the 
extreme youth and delicate beauty of the prisoner. 

“ There can be no objection, if the woman is quite 
willing to share the imprisonment of her mistress. We 
have else no right to lock her up,” he replied. 


In Prison. 


'59 


“ Oh, marster !” suddenly cried Melpomene, coming 
forward and clasping her hands in the earnestness of 
her appeal — “oh, sir, I’m not only willing but dying to 
stay ’long of my dear, darling young mist’ess. I could 
go down on my bended knees to pray to you to let me 
stay ’long of her, or to thank you for it, if you would.” 

“ Well, you need not go to such extremes. If you do 
not object to it, no one else is likely to do so. Just fol- 
low that man,” said the warden, pointing to the turnkey, 
who had taken the half stupefied Emolyn by the hand 
and was leading her away. 

Melpomene needed no second permission, but sprang 
to the side of her mistress, whose arm she drew within 
her own, as she said to the turnkey : 

“ Let go of her hand ; I can help my lady along.” 

The turnkey, a kind-hearted man, immediately 
dropped his hold, and smiled as he said : 

“ Come on then ; don’t loiter.” 

They went on up the stairs, followed by Dr. Willet, 
who did not wait for permission. 

The turnkey took them to the women’s ward, and to 
a corner cell that had the advantage of being double 
the size of the others, and of being lighted by two win- 
dows — one on the north, and one on the east. 

“ You will be able to see the sun rise here from be- 
hind the woods across the river. Sunrise is always a 
symbol of the passing away of darkness and sorrow, and 
the coming of light and joy,” said Dr. Willet, as he fol- 
lowed Emolyn into the cell. 

His care had made arrangements with the warden, 
and got this large corner room with its two windows 
assigned to Emolyn. His generosity had furnished it 
plainly but cheerfully with all that a young girl might 
require in a room that was to be her chamber and par- 
lor in one. He had put a red and white carpet on the 


i6o 


“ Em. 


floor ; a little cottage set of furniture, painted red and 
white ; and had hung the windows with red chintz and 
white muslin curtains, which, while they admitted the 
sunshine, concealed the grating. The room was daintily 
clean, and bathed in a rosy light. 

Emolyn sank down mechanically on the soft easy- 
chair covered with white dimity. 

Melpomene, with loving care, removed her bonnet, 
and hung it up in the little wardrobe ; pulled off her 
boots and put them away, and replaced them with slip- 
pers which she took from her travelling-bag. 

Emolyn received all these affectionate attentions with 
stolid apathy, as she now received everything, whether 
of good or evil. 

“ Still under the beneficent influence of my drugs — 
my blessed sedatives,” said the doctor to himself. But 
to her he said : 

“ Now, my dear child, you will fancy yourself out 
on a visit, and keep up your spirits. I will come to see 
you twice a day. Mr. Berners will come as often. 
You will have plenty of company from outside. Pony 
will stay with you ; so you will have plenty of atten- 
tion within.” 

“ Yes,” Emolyn assented, with a weary sigh. 

“ You must get her to lie down, Pony, as soon as 
possible. I will arrange with the nearest restaurant to 
send in her meals. Do you understand ?” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed, sir.” 

The kind-hearted doctor was loth to leave his young 
charge, but he observed her extreme weariness and 
drowsiness, the latter the effect of the drug he had ad- 
ministered, and he saw, too, the impatience of the turn- 
key, so he took up the languid hand of Emolyn, raised 
it to his lips, promised to see her again in the evening, 
and so left her. 


In Prison. 


1 6 1 


He had witnessed many scenes of distress in his life 
and practice as a physician — he had done his best to 
shield this unfortunate girl from too keen a sense of her 
situation — yet he had never felt a pang of pity so sharp 
as when he left her in the prison cell and heard the 
key turn upon her ! 

He took the hack which had brought the party to the 
prison, and which, by his direction, had waited for him 
and, without returning to his own home, commenced at 
once a round of visits to his patients, from whom, in- 
deed, he felt that he had been detained too long. 

On his way back, however, he called at the nearest 
restaurant and ordered meals to be sent to cell 45 of the 
women’s ward in the prison. He could not bring him- 
self to utter the name of Emolyn Wyndeworth in that 
connection, but he told the proprietor that he himself 
would be responsible for the cost. Then he went on 
his professional rounds, and having completed them 
late in the afternoon he called at the Blackistone Hotel, 
where Mr. Berners was staying, to dine with the latter 
by appointment, to consult over the case of Emolyn. 

Mr. Berners told Dr. Willet of the eminent counsel 
he had engaged to defend the accused, and further 
informed him that he should take these legal gentlemen 
to see his ward the next morning. 

“ She must really be induced to make a clean breast 
of it, and give up the name of her husband and his 
family,” said Mr. Berners ; “ for I think if the whole 
truth were known, as she alone knows it, it would help 
her very much ; for though I feel morally certain of her 
acquittal, yet I think that nothing should be left undone 
to insure such a result.” 

u I fear she will never reveal the name of her husband. 
She says that he is dead, and that she will now never 


162 


“ Em . 


bring reproach upon his memory, or his family,” replied 
Dr. Willet, with a deep sigh. 

“ These gentle creatures can be so obstinate in some 
respects,” added Mr. Berners, as the)’ both arose from 
the table. 

They went from the hotel to the prison, but on inquiry 
found, from Pony's report, that Emolyn had slept the 
whole afternoon and was still sleeping. 

The doctor left directions for her treatment, and both 
gentlemen left kind messages for her on her awakening. 

Early the next morning Mr. Berners visited Emolyn 
Wynde worth, taking with him the two most eminent law- 
yers of the city, whom he had engaged to defend her — 
namely, John Abbot and James Banks. 

They found the poor girl up and dressed and reclin- 
ing in her easy-chai^, overwhelmed with grief and hor- 
ror. The sedative effects of the drug had passed off, 
and the reaction had come, bringing with it a keen 
sense of all the misery of her situation. 

Both Mr. Berners and the counsel he introduced to 
her did their utmost to console and reassure her. 

They declared to her in the most positive manner 
that this imprisonment she suffered was really the 
worst evil that she would be called upon to endure ; that 
her trial would be short and her acquittal and full vin- 
dication would be swift and certain. To make this vin- 
dication more effectual, they besought her to give up 
the name of the man who had wronged her by a secret 
marriage, and to tell them all the circumstances as they 
were known only to herself. 

But here, even in the midst of all her grief, fear and 
horror, she refused to reveal her secret. 

“ No,” she said; “now that this deep dishonor has 
fallen on me, I must be silent, forever silent on that 
subject. I can die, if I must, but I can never bring 


In Prison. 


163 


reproach on the memory of my husband and the name 
of his family.” 

No persuasions, no arguments could move her from 
the stand she had taken. 

So her counsel departed, disappointed in their design, 
and convinced that the only line of defense to be 
adopted would be that of paroxysmal insanity. 

Dr. Willet and Mr. Berners visited Emolyn twice 
daily in her cell. They ministered so to her mind and 
body, by conversation and by discreet medication, that 
the delicate and sensitive girl was enabled to endure the 
horror of her position with more fortitude than any one 
could have credited her with. 

It was the third week in May when she was commit- 
ted to prison. The criminal court would open on the 
first of June. The docket was a short one, and there 
were but a few petty cases to be tried before that of 
Emolyn Wyndworth, charged with infanticide, should 
come on. It was, therefore, expected that she would 
be arraigned in the latter part of June. Emolyn 's 
friends and counsel, confident of her innocence and of 
her final vindication, therefore did all in their power to 
sustain and bear her up over this painful month of 
imprisonment that must intervene before her trial and 
acquittal. 

Mrs. Warde had not once been to see her since her 
incarceration ; nor, to be truthful, did Emolyn desire 
to meet the woman. 

In the midst of her own great sorrows, Emolyn 
Wyndeworth did not forget the lesser troubles of her 
humble fellow-creatures, whom she had been accus- 
tomed to succor. 

One day she inquired of Pony, if she— Pony— knew 
anything about poor Susan Palmer. 

“ You know she went to the hospital to be confined, 


just before I was taken ill. Have you heard from her 
since that, Pony?” she asked. 

“ No, Miss Emolyn ; and that has been five weeks 
ago. I reckon she must have been discharged and 
gone home before this.” 

“ I wish you would go out to-day and inquire, and 
take her five dollars from me, Pony. Tell her that 
now Uncle Lewis has come, I have as much money as 
I want and more than I can spend, so she must let me 
know if she needs anything at all, that I may supply 
her.” 

The afternoon of that same day Pony went on her 
errand. It was the first occasion on which the faithful 
creature had left her mistress to go outside of the prison 
walls. She walked all the way across the city to the 
neighborhood of Green Point, and to the cottage occu- 
pied by John Palmer. Here she found the family in 
what were, for them, prosperous circumstances — the 
father was at work, and the children were all in health ; 
but the mother was still at the hospital, slowly recover- 
ing from a long and tedious confinement. 

Pony left the money and the message with the eldest 
girl, Anne, and then hurried back to her imprisoned 
mistress. 

On re-entering the jail, poor Pony was subjected to 
what she protested against as a shameful and unpardon- 
able indignity. She was taken into an empty cell and 
searched by two female turnkeys, to see if she had no 
poison nor deadly weapon concealed on her person for 
the use of her imprisoned mistress. As nothing of the 
sort was found upon her, she was permitted to go to her 
young lady. 

“ I won’t tell Miss Emolyn nothin’ ’tall ’bout this 
here,” she said to herself. “ Dear knows she has trouble 
’nough on her own mind ’dout this ! but, I do declare, I 


In Prison. 


165 


never felt so ashamed of myself and my fellow-creeturs 
in all my life as I do to-day !” 

She reached the cell, was admitted by the turnkey, 
and found Emolyn weeping. 

“ Oh, Pony ! My heart sank as soon as I found my- 
self alone ! I cannot bear to be alone, Pony ! I get 
such a horror of these four walls and that locked door, 
that I feel as if I should go raving mad and dash my 
brains out to attain my liberty !” she cried. 

“ Oh, my poor darling ! I did not want to leave you 
this morning, and I will never leave you again — never ! 
until we walk out together !” said the woman. And 
then, to divert the attention of her troubled mistress, 
Pony reported the prosperity of the Palmer family, and 
the slow convalescence of the mother in the woman’s 
hospital. 

“ I would have gone over to the hospital myself, only 
I did not want to stay away from you so long ; so I sent 
the money and a message by Nancy Palmer,” said Pony. 

Emolyn answered ; 

“ You did right.” 



CHAPTER XVI. 

“guilty or not guilty ?” 

The wretch condemned with life to part, 

Still, still on hope relies : 

And every pang that rends the heart 
Bids expectation rise. 

Hope, like a glimmering taper’s light, 

Adorns and cheers the way ; 

But still, as darker grows the night, 

Emits a brighter ray. 

Goldsmith 

It was about a week after Pony’s visit to the Palmer 
family, that Emolyn was lying one morning on her bed 
when the cell-door was harshly unlocked, and the voice 
of a turnkey was heard to say : 

“ She is in there. Go in, and you will find her.” 

A woman, carrying a child in her arms, entered. 

The door was instantly clanged to and locked behind 
her. . 

Emolyn half rose from her reclining position to see, 
standing before her, Susan Palmer, with a young babe 
on her bosom. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Palmer, have you, indeed, come to see me?” 
exclaimed Emolyn, in emotion. 

“ Oh, my dear young lady ! Oh, my dear young 
lady ! That I should find you here ! Oh, what in 
justice ! Oh, what shame !” cried Susan Palmer, so 

[166] 


“ Guilty or Not Guilty f 


67 


overcome by her feelings that she sank down on the 
chair Pony had set for her, and burst into tears. 

“ Don’t cry, dear Mrs. Palmer. It does no good, you 
know, and there is nothing on earth worth crying for. I 
have shed the last tears I shall ever shed in this world,” 
said Emolyn, in a voice of such calm despair that Susan 
Palmer burst forth with accelerated grief. 

“You have brought me your baby to see. I thank 
you for that. Mine is in Heaven. Let me look at 
yours,” said Emolyn, holding out her arms. She was 
now sitting on the side of the bed. 

Susan Palmer wiped her reddened, tearful eyes and 
came and laid the baby on the girl’s lap, and then 
opened the light, white flannel shawl in which it had 
been wrapped and revealed its face, and in her mother 
pride forgot for a moment her sorrowful sympathy with 
the unhappy young prisoner. 

“ I have brought her to see you first of all, Miss Emo- 
lyn. We were discharged from the woman’s hospital 
this morning, and before going home I said I would 
come by and see you and show you my baby ; for, oh, 
Miss Emolyn, she is so much like you. She is the very 
print of you ! And no wonder, when you come to 
think of it ; for your own sweet face was in my mind 
all the time ! Seems to me I could see 3^0 u just as 
plain as if you was a standing before me. But look at 
her, Miss, look what a lovely, fair skin and blue eyes 
she has got ?” 

Emolyn was gazing on the babe with a tender, tremu- 
lous interest. 

“ She is not the least like your other children, Mrs. 
Palmer,” she said at length. 

“ Oh, no, Miss, not a bit. They are all dark, as why 
not, when their father and me are both as brown as 
berries, with eyes as black as sloes. But it was all 


“ Em. 


168 


along of I thinking of you so much, Miss Emolyn, that 
she is the print of you." 

“ She is very pretty,” said Emolyn, gazing fondly 
down on the mite. 

“ She is lovely, ma’am, though I say it as oughtn’t to, 
she being of my own child.” 

“ She is very tiny,” continued Emolyn. 

“Now ain’t she, though ? Why, she don’t weigh 
half so much as either of my brown babies did.” 

“And is she not very delicate, too ?” inquired the 
young lady. 

“ Delicate ! Oh, don’t talk ! Why, Miss Emolyn, 
they thought she was dead at first ; but I begged and 
prayed the nurse to lay her close to my side, to see if 
my warmth wouldn’t bring her to life. So the nurse 
laid her by me in the bed, instead of laying her out. It 
was dark in the room, and I couldn’t see her well, but I 
hugged her up. The nurse had given me something to 
quiet me and put me to sleep ; and though I tried my 
best to warm the baby, I know when I dropped off to 
sleep it was as cold as a stone ; but what do you think, 
ma’am, but toward morning I was waked up by a piti- 
ful little wailing and squirming at my bosom, and there 
was my baby, come to life. Now, Miss Emolyn, what 
do you think of that ?” 

“ Oh, I think you must have been so overjoyed !” 

“ Oh, I was, Miss Emolyn ! I was ! So thankful, too ! 
But, ah, how heartless I am to be talking about my own 
rejoicings when you are in such sorrow ! But my joy 
did not last long, Miss Emolyn ! News came of your 
terrible misfortune, and the shock of it throwed me 
back to that degree I was in the hospital six weeks, and 
am only just out, and I have come to see you, before 
going home. Oh, Miss Emolyn, I needn’t tell you that 


‘ Guilty or Not Guilty ? 


169 


I know you are as innocent as this baby ! But how did 
it all happen, my lamb ?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know ! I never knew ! I only know that 
what happened to me was the very opposite to what 
happened to you ! You folded your still-born child to 
your bosom and warmed it back to life, and went to 
sleep, and woke to find it living. # I laid my living child 
beside me, fell asleep, and woke to find it dead — 
strangled ! And they say I did it — they say I did it ! 
And they put me here !” moaned Emolyn, in her tear- 
less despair. 

“ Oh, my dear young lady ! Do not look so dread- 
fully ! I would rather see you weep. No matter what 
the crowner’s quest said. Nobody believes you guilty ! 
And as for me, Miss Emolyn, I am a poor woman, with 
no way of showing my love and honor to you but one 
way; and if I was a queen-mother, Miss Emolyn, with 
a kingdom at my back, I couldn’t take a better than 
this — to name my innocent babe for you — to call her 
Emolyn !” murmured the woman. 

“ Oh, no, no, no ! You must never do that ! You 
would bring misfortune on the child !” cried the 
unhappy girl, in great bitterness of spirit. 

“ No, no, a blessing, I say, for I name her after an 
angel.” 

“ You must not do it ! You must not do it !” 
exclaimed Emolyn. 

“ But it is done, my lamb ! The baby was christened 
by the chaplain of the hospital last Sunday, and she is 
registered in the book as Emolyn Wyndeworth Palmer. 
Kiss my little ‘ Em.,’ your little, blue-eyed namesake, 
Miss Emolyn, and let us go ; for the turnkey said I was 
not to stay but twenty minutes.” 

The most unhappy girl raised the babe and pressed 


“ Em . 


1 70 


it to her heart, and pressed her lips upon its face, and 
then the frozen eyes were melted and rained in tears. 

“ Oh !” she breathed, “ as I press this babe to my 
bosom, she draws all the fever and soreness from my 
heart ! But does she take it ? Ah, Heaven forbid ! 
But this is another baptism, a baptism of tears, my 
little Em ! Take her ! Take her, Susan Palmer ! I 
should but bring evil on the blue-eyed angel !” she 
added, bitterly, as she returned the child to the arms of 
its mother. 

Not too soon. The warder unlocked the cell door. 
Mrs. Palmer raised the hand of her benefactress to her 
lips, and then, breathing blessings, left the room. 

“ You stayed too long,” said the warder gruffly, as he 
relocked the door. “ Do you think a man has got noth- 
ing else to do but to stand here and wait for you ?” 

Susan Palmer did not answer him, but, with the baby 
in her arms, followed where he led to the outlet of the 
prison. 

Later that day, Mr. Abbot, Emolyn’s senior counsel, 
called to see her, to tell her that her trial was fixed for 
the following Monday. During his visit he again took 
occasion to implore Emolyn to strengthen his hands for 
her defense by giving him her full confidence, and es- 
pecially by revealing to him the name of her husband, 
the father of her child. 

“ I cannot prove that I ever had a husband,” was the 
despairing response. “ My husband is dead. The priest 
who married us is dead. My marriage certificate, with 
all the letters that passed between my husband and my- 
self, has been stolen by some enemy, and probably de- 
stroyed. Nevertheless, if my child had lived, and I had 
not been subjected to the deep degradation of this 
charge, for her sake, I would have taken her in my arms 
and carried her to my deceased husband’s father, and 


‘ Guilty or Not Guilty ?” 


171 


told him my whole story. He has known me from child- 
hood, and I think he would have believed and sustained 
me ! But now my child is taken from me. I suffer 
under the deep dishonor of a criminal charge, and noth- 
ing shall unseal my lips on that subject ! I will not 
bring reproach on the memory of my poor boy, nor on 
the name of his good father.” 

This was Emolyn’s ultimatum, and no arguments or 
persuasions could move her from it. 

The day of the great trial came. From an early hour 
in the morning the court-yard was filled and the court- 
house surrounded by a vast multitude of people waiting 
for the doors to be opened, that they might press in. 

At eight o'clock Dr. Willet and Mr. Berners visited 
the prison for the purpose of preparing Emolyn to go 
to court, and of accompanying her thither. 

They found that the girl had already risen, dressed 
and breakfasted. 

She was clothed in deep mourning, and looked deadly 
pale, while she trembled as if ague-stricken. 

Dr. Willet administered a powerful tonic sedative, 
while Mr. Berners said : 

“ Fear nothing, my child. Rejoice rather that the 
hour of your deliverance is so near at hand. Bear up 
through the ordeal which shall soon vindicate and free 
you.” 

Thus ministered unto, in both mind and body, sup- 
ported and comforted by two such strong friends as Dr. 
Willet and Mr. Berners, Emolyn Wyndeworth, with 
some fortitude and calmness, yielded herself to the cus- 
tody of the sheriff, who came to take her to the court. 

“ Keep your vail down, my dear, and do not raise it 
until you are required to do so,” whispered Mr. Berners, 
as he and Dr. Willet followed Emolyn and the sheriff. 

Emolyn, who never wore a vail before, because she 


loved the air and sunshine, had from a habit let her 
long, crape vail hang behind her bonnet. Now, at her 
guardian’s direction, she drew it over her face. 

They left the prison by a side door, crossed the yard, 
passed through a side gate communicating with the 
court-yard, crossed that and entered a back door lead- 
ing through a short passage directly to the sheriff’s 
room. 

“ I have brought her this way,” said sheriff Waller to 
his companions, “ so that we may not be annoyed by 
the curiosity of the crowd. This door communicates 
directly with the court-room, near the judge’s bench, so 
that we may enter without disturbance.” 

And so saying, the sheriff opened the door and led 
his prisoner into the court. 

The room was crowded to suffocation. A sea of heads 
surged up from the staircases, lobbies, and aisles to the 
very railing separating the audience from the bar. 

How did this multitude know that the black-robed, 
black vailed little being who entered from the sheriff’s 
room, attended by three clerical-looking gentlemen, was 
the accused prisoner whose trial was to commence that 
day ? 

No one could answer that question satisfactorily ; but 
it is certain that as soon as Emolyn and her escort 
entered a buzz of conversation passed through the whole 
assembly. 

Emolyn was accommodated with a seat at the table 
with her counsel, Messrs. Abbot and Banks. 

Judge Orr being on the bench, the crier proceeded 
to open the court. The proceedings commenced. A 
jury was quickly empannelled, for though all who were 
personally acquainted with Emolyn Wyndeworth cer- 
tainly believed in her innocence, the world at large were 
too thoroughly bewildered by the circumstances of 


“ Guilty or Not Guilty f 


1 73 


the case to have formed an opinion that would have 
unfitted any individual belonging to it from serving as 
an impartial juror. 

The jurors having been sworn in and having taken 
their seats, the clerk of arraigns arose and read the 
indictment charging Emolyn Wyndeworth with the 
murder of her infant child. 

This document, so made up of legal phrases and “ vain 
repetitions,” was, fortunately for her, almost unintelligi- 
ble to Emolyn. 

But when the clerk of the arraigns directed her to 
rise and answer to the question : 

“ Prisoner at the bar, are you guilty or not guilty of 
this felony wherewith you stand indicted ?” she answer- 
ed, rather informally : 

“ I am not. I never hurt my poor little child. I 
never could have done so. I would have died first. 
No, sir, I am not guilty. As I hope for salvation, I am 
not.” 

When asked how she would be tried, she answered, 
again childishly and simply : 

“ In any way you please.” But then being prompted 
by her counsel, she added : “ By God and my country.” 

And then she dropped, half fainting, into her seat. 

The district-attorney took the indictment from the 
hands of the clerk and proceeded to open it. 

This district-attorney, Keyworth, was a great thun- 
derer, a terror of evil-doers, the horror of the defense, 
always noted for the severity and success with which he 
prosecuted capital criminals to conviction and death. A 
tall, stern men he was, with gaunt features, looking as 
if they had been carved out of oak, and framed in 
bristling, iron-gray hair and beard. Not unlike the 
portraits of Old Hickory he looked. 

He held the indictment in his hand and was getting 


174 


“ Em. 


up his electricity for a grand display of thunder and 
lightning ; but when his eyes fell on Emolyn Wynde- 
worth’s pure, sweet, infantile face, the scathing words 
died on his lips, the prosecuting spirit fled from him. 
Should he pursue this child to death ? — this child, prob- 
ably the unconscious destroyer of her child, and possibly 
quite innocent ? No ! For once the thunderer was 
merciful. He did no more than his duty obliged him 
to do. He merely opened the indictment by referring 
to its text and then telling the jury, in plain words, what 
that document had already told them in puzzling ones. 

The short, cold opening speech ended, Mr. Keyworth 
proceeded to call his witnesses. 

The first one summoned was Mrs. Malvina Warde, 
who, being sworn, testified to the facts, with which the 
reader is already acquainted, concerning her discovery 
of the strangled child, by the side of the newly-made 
mother, the prisoner at the bar. Mrs. Warde would 
have gone on and told a long and damaging story of the 
misdemeanors of Emolyn Wyndeworth, had she not been 
peremptorily stopped by the bench and requested to 
keep to the point at issue. That point was so very small, 
and there was so very little more to be said about it that 
the witness soon got through, and after a short cross-ex- 
amination by the defense, she was permitted to retire. 

She sat down, muttering to a stranger who occupied 
the seat next her own : 

“They are all biased in favor of this girl; but, if a 
women be only very young and fair, she may do what 
she pleases without risk of punishment.” 

Dr. Willet was the next witness called to the stand 
and most unwillingly testified to having been called on 
the first of May last to attend the prisoner, who had 
been recently confined, and to examine the child, whom 
he found dead beside the mother ; also to having on the 


“ Guilty or Not Guilty ? 


1 75 


same day made a post-mortem examination of the body 
of the babe, and discovered that it had died of strangu- 
lation. 

Cross-examined by Mr. Abbot, of the defense, he 
testified that it was a matter of medical experience 
that mothers in the prisoner’s late distressing circum- 
stances were frequently subjects of temporary but very 
decided insanity, during the paroxysms of which they 
could not be held morally responsible for their acts. 

The third witness sworn was Charles Clermont, the 
druggist, who testified that on the 29th of April, in the 
dusk of the evening, the prisoner at the bar had come 
to him to purchase an ounce of laudanum, saying that 
she wanted it to soothe a pain and put her to sleep ; but 
there was something in her manner that assured him 
she meditated suicide. He was afraid to refuse to sell 
her the laudanum, lest she should go and buy it some- 
where else and destroy herself ; so he gave her an 
ounce of licorice water with a half a dram of laudanum 
in it ; this, he thought, was a dose safe to put her to 
sleep, and safe also to let her awake. He had never 
seen his customer again until he recognized her as the 
prisoner at the bar.” 

As the testimony of this witness was unimportant, he 
was permitted to retire without cross-examination. 

District Attorney Keyworth now arose and said that 
the prosecution would rest the case here. 

Mr. Abbot arose for the defense. He commenced by 
stigmatizing the verdict of the coroner’s jury, charging 
Emolyn Wyndeworth with the death of her infant, as a 
gross blunder, only to be approached in fatuity by the 
deplorable mistake of the grand jury in indicting so 
mere a child for so heinous a crime. He would under- 
take to make her innocence as clear as day. He said 
that, in the first place, the known character and ante- 


176 


“ Em. 


cedents of his youthful client forbade the probability 
that she could ever have been guilty of so atrocious an 
act as the willful murder of her own babe ; that besides, 
if she had been the most depraved and unprincipled of 
women and the most heartless and cruel of mothers, 
she had no motive, no incentive to the destruction of her 
own child ; that she was not a frail girl, as some who 
did not know her might suspect ; that she was, on the 
contrary, the youthful widow of a young man, who, for 
reasons, had made her his wife by a secret marriage, 
but had since died : that, if her child had lived, she 
would have sought out the father of her late husband 
and revealed her marriage to him ; but that, since the 
death of her child and the dreadful injustice of her ar- 
raignment on the charge of its murder, his client had 
determined to seal her lips with silence, lest some of the 
reproach of her trial should be reflected on the memory 
of her young husband and the name of his family. He 
had in vain besought her to make the revelation that 
would vindicate her fair fame ; she had steadily refused 
to do so, for the reasons already stated. He had, there- 
fore, no legal proof of the story he now told the jury ; 
but if they were, or should be, inclined to doubt its 
truth, let them look in the face of his client for its con- 
firmation. 

He then proceeded to call witnesses for the defense. 
The first one summoned was Commander Bruce. 

On hearing his name called, the young prisoner, who 
had not known of his presence in the city, but who had 
believed him to be at sea, started, turned deadly pale, 
and seemed on the very verge of fainting. 

She was told to lift up her vail. She did so ; but 
cast down her eyes. 

The witness, being sworn, was directed to look at the 
prisoner, and asked if he recognized her. 


“ Guilty or Not Guilty f 


1 77 


“ I do. I have known her, Emolyn Wyndeworth, 
from her infancy up to a few months ago, when I 
sailed for Rio de Janeiro ; from which port I have just 
returned,” answered the commander, in a voice broken 
by strong emotion. 

Tlien, being examined by Mr. Abbot, he testified to 
the uniform conscientiousness, benevolence and piety 
of the accused. He dwelt upon the purity, tenderness, 
and compassion of her heart ; the active charity of her 
life. He would have made a speech in her defense had 
he been permitted to do so. But he was allowed to 
retire without any cross-examination. 

Other old friends of the family, who had been intim- 
ately acquainted with Emolyn Wyndeworth in the days 
of her uncle, were examined, and testified in turn to 
the unblemished character and reputation of the 
accused. 

And then followed Susan Palmer and a number of 
the poor whom Emolyn had succored from her child- 
hood up. These, with tearful eyes and broken voices, 
testified to the unvarying truthfulness of her mind, 
tenderness of her heart, and helpfulness of her hands. 

With the examination of the last of these witnesses 
the defense rested their case. 

The judge summed up in a very few words, going 
over and condensing the evidence for the prosecution 
and for the defense, and reminding the jury that, where 
a doubt existed, that doubt was to be for the benefit of 
the prisoner. 

The jury, in charge of two officers of the court, then 
left the room to deliberate on their verdict. 

Emolyn, no longer able to bear up under the awful 
pressure of her circumstances, sunk back half swooning 
in her chair. Dr. Willet and Mrs. Palmer were at her 


i ;8 


“ Em. 


side in an instant. Susan Palmer applied smelling- 
salts to her nostrils, while Dr. Willet felt her pulse. 

Mr. Berners had hurried from the room, but soon 
reappeared with a glass of wine in his hand, which he 
brought to the prisoner and compelled her to drink. 

Just then there was a little stir in one corner of the 
court-room, followed by a murmur throughout the 
assembly. 

The cause was soon apparent. The jury were re-en- 
tering the court. 

The crier called for silence, and the crowd became 
quiet. 

The jury paused in a group before the bench. 

“ Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon your 
verdict ?” demanded the clerk of arraigns. 

“We have agreed,” answered the foreman, for his 
colleagues. 

“ Prisoner at the bar, stand up and look upon the jury.” 

Dr. Willet raised Emolyn to her feet and supported 
her trembling form. 

“ Gentlemen of the jury, look upon the prisoner. How 
say you now, do you find Emolyn Wyndeworth guilty, 
or not guilty, of the felony for which she stands in- 
dicted ?” 

j “ Not Guilty,” responded the foreman. 

The silence of the multitude was broken by an irre- 
pressible murmur of approval. 

“ What is it ? Oh, what is it ?” panted Emolyn, in an 
expiring voice. 

“ You are free, my child ! You are vindicated !” ex- 
claimed Dr. Willet, while Mr. Berners and Commander 
Bruce caught each a hand of hers, crying, the one : 

“ Oh, thank God !” 

And the other : 

“ I wish you joy !” 



CHAPTER XVII. 

VINDICATED. 

Oh friends there was a time 

I could have heard such sounds with lively joy : 

But now it comes too late ! 

Give blind ones beauty ; music to the deaf : 

Give prosperous winds to ships that have no sails ; 

Their joys will be like mine. Fane. 

“ The prisoner is discharged from custody. The court 
is adjourned.” 

“ Come, my love. You are free. You are vindicated. 
Come with me.” 

“ Heaven bless you, my child. May all your future 
days be days of pleasantness and peace.” 

“ Oh, my darling young lady, won’t you only look up 
and speak to your poor friend ? Sure, no one in the 
land is more rejoiced and thankful at your acquittal than 
Susan Palmer is.” 

All these words, from the judge, from the doctor, from 
the lawyer, and from the poor woman who had been the 
object of her bounty, fell upon the dulled ears of Emo- 
lyn like sounds from some far-off scene, in which she 
had no personal interest. 

Gathering closer around her, they saw that she was 
unconscious of them. She had fainted where she sat. 

Dr. Willet lifted her in his arms as if she had been an 

[i79] 


i8o 


“ Em. 


infant, and bore her into the marshal’s room, and laid 
her on the sofa, and applied restoratives. 

“ She bore np wonderfully through the terrible ordeal 
of the trial. It is no wonder that she succumbs now,” 
said Mr. Berners, as he stood by the sofa watching the 
efforts of the physician to recover her. 

“ No wonder indeed, poor lamb,” sobbed Mrs. Palmer, 
who knelt by the side of the swooning girl, diligently 
rubbing her cold hands. 

These endeavors were soon successful, and Emolyn 
heaved a deep sigh and opened her eyes. 

At first she looked around in confusion, and then see- 
ing her friends standing near her, bending over her, she 
murmured the question : 

“ What has happened ?” 

“ You are acquitted, you are vindicated, my dear 
child,” answered Mr. Berners. 

“ Thank Heaven !” she murmured, but very low, and 
without a sign of triumph in her plaintive tones and 
pale face. 

“You had better get her away as soon as possible, 
Mr. Berners,” said Dr. Willet. 

“ Come, my child, cheer up. Come home with me 
now,” said her guardian, taking her hand to lift her 
from the sofa. 

Emolyn obeyed the impulse given her, and sat up. 

Mrs. Palmer replaced the hat that had been lifted 
from her head when she had been laid on the sofa. 

Dr. Willet put a small bottle of smelling salts in her 
hand. 

Then drawing one of her arms in his own, he led her 
out through the same side door by which they had en- 
tered, and placed her in a carriage which the care of Mr. 
Berners had caused to be brought up and kept in wait- 
ing there. 


Vindicated. 


1 8 1 


He had wished to avoid the curious, gaping and gazing 
crowd that had collected in front of the court to see 
the discharged prisoner come out. 

He was only partially successful. Some suspicion of 
this intended evasion of them had crept among the peo- 
ple, so that while many watched the front entrance, many 
more came around to the side to wait for the expect- 
ed sight. When Emolyn, leaning on the arm of her 
guardian, issued through the side door, her appearance 
was greeted by the rude gaze of many eyes, and the 
free comments of as many lips. 

“ Oh, hurry me in ! Hurry me in !” she panted, turn- 
ing her face and hiding it on the shoulder of her guard- 
ian. 

Mr. Berners caught her up hastily, and placed her in 
the carriage. Then he entered and seated himself be- 
side her. Dr. Willet was about to follow, when his arm 
was touched. He turned quickly and somewhat angri- 
ly, but he quieted down on seeing a fine soldierly-look - 
ing, gray-bearded man, whom he recognized as Com- 
mander Bruce. 

“ For Heaven’s sake, Doctor, let me speak to my old 
friend’s child ! I strove to keep near her after the 
verdict, but failed, when she left the court-room. I 
thought you would bring her out by this private door, 
so I came here to wait. How is she ?” hastily demand- 
ed the commander. 

“ III enough ; yet wonderfully well, under the circum- 
stances ; so I hope you will understand, and pardon me 
if I beg you to say as little as possible to her,” replied 
Dr. Willet. 

“ Only a word,” said Commander Bruce, pushing his 
way to the open door of the carriage, while the buzzing 
voices of the crowd became more noisy than ever. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Berners ? I wish to speak to 


82 


“ Em. 


your young ward. Emolyn, my dear child, I only wish 
to tell you how much I rejoice at your acquittal, and to 
say that if you ever need a friend in this world, you 
will find one in old Leonidas Bruce. The Lord bless 
you, my dear !" he said, as he took her hand and 
carried it to his lips, with old-fashioned gallantry. 

She tried to thank him ; she struggled to speak ; but 
only inarticulate sounds came from her white lips. She 
gasped, covered her face with her hands, and sank back 
in her corner. 

“ She is quite unnerved," whispered Mr. Berners. 

“ I see ! I see ! Poor girl ! Poor girl ! Well, 
Emolyn, my dear, I will not detain you now. Once 
more, good-by, and the Lord bless you !" said the old 
sailor. Then, with a nod to Mr. Berners and Dr. Willet, 
he turned away and mixed himself with the elbowing 
and pushing crowd. 

“ Where shall I tell him to drive ?" inquired Dr. 
Willet, with his hand on the door. 

“ To the avenue, where we will give him other direc- 
tions," whispered Mr. Berners. 

Dr. Willet gave the order in a low tone, and then 
sprang into the carriage, closed the door, and took his 
seat. 

“ Now, where do you intend to take her ?" inquired 
Dr. Willet, in a voice which, low as it was, was over- 
heard by Emolyn, who panted, gasped, and brokenly 
uttered the words : 

“ Oh, take me away ! — away ! — from all these people ! 
— from all who know me ! — far away ! where I shall 
never be heard of more !" 

“ Compose yourself, dear child. I will convey you to 
some sweet, silent retreat in the country— to my own 
quiet home and kind-hearted sisters, perhaps," began 


Vindicated. 


83 


Mr. Berners, but he was interrupted by Emolyn, wildly 
exclaiming : 

“ Oh, no, no, no ! not there ! not to them ! They 
know me and my trouble. Oh, take me where no one 
knows anything about me ! where I shall never be 
heard of again !” 

“Very well, I will do so, my child. And from this 
moment I will begin to hide and shield you from cruel 
eyes,” said Mr. Berners. 

The hack rolled on and entered upon the avenue. 
When they had reached the most crowded part of that 
populous thoroughfare, Mr. Berners pulled the check- 
string and stopped the carriage. 

“ Dr. Willet, be so very kind as to pay and discharge 
the driver, and then join us farther up the street. We 
must first lose ourselves in this new crowd, who have 
not even heard of the verdict yet and do not know us,” 
said Mr. Berners, as he placed his pocket-book in the 
hands of the doctor, and assisted his vailed charge to 
alight. 

They walked on unnoticed among the passengers of 
the sidewalk, keeping silence, until they were joined by 
Dr. Willet, when Mr. Berners said : 

“ We will go to the next hack-stand and get a fresh 
hack, whose driver will not recognize us, and then, Dr. 
Willet, we will bid you good-by. I shall take my ward 
across the river into Virginia and onward to Dranes- 
ville, an obscure village, about twenty miles from the 
city. Then, I am sure, that you will perform for me 
these good offices : to go to the prison and claim her ef- 
fects, put them in charge of Melpomene, and send the 
woman on by a private conveyance this very night. Em- 
olyn will need her maid and her clothing immediately. 
Do you think you can do this without inconvenience ?” 


184 


“Em." 


“ Yes, certainly, and with great pleasure,” cordially 
responded Dr. Willet. 

“ I need not ask you to caution Melpomene not to 
speak of her mistress at all; but when necessary, to speak 
of me as — ‘ Master Lewis ?’ ” 

“ I shall warn her to be very careful.” 

“We shall live very quietly at the little hotel in the 
hamlet, until Emolyn has recovered her strength and 
calmness, and then I will take her to Europe for a long 
tour.” 

“ And after that ?” inquired the doctor. 

“ ‘After that,' — I don’t know,” responded Mr. Berners, 
slowly and thoughtfully. 

By this time they had approached a hack-stand. 

Dr. Willet surveyed the group of carriages until he 
fixed upon one whose horses seemed strong and fresh, 
then he signalled the driver, who touched his hat and 
drove up. 

“ Are your horses good for a long drive ?” inquired Mr. 
Berners. 

“Yes, sir. They haven’t been out to-day, sir. Fresh 
pair, just fotch from the stable, sir,” answered the 
driver. 

“Very well. I will engage it.” 

The driver jumped down from his box and opened 
the door. 

Mr. Berners lifted his weary companion and seated 
her on the back cushion. Then he turned and said to 
the doctor. 

“ Now I think of it, our way lies directly past your 
house. Pray get in and give us your company as long 
as possible.” 

“ Thanks ; but you seem to forget I have a commis- 
sion which requires me to go in an opposite direction,” 
answered the doctor. 


Vindicated. 


185 


“ Oh ! ay ! certainly. Well, then, I will bid you 
good-by here, though with much regret,” replied Mr. 
Berners. 

“ Good-by ! good-by !” exclaimed the doctor, heartily 
shaking the hand of his friend. Then putting his head 
in at the carriage door, he took Emolyn’s slender fingers 
within his own, and whispered, earnestly : 

“ Farewell, my dear child. My most fervent prayers 
will go up daily for your happiness. I do not presume 
to think that you will ever need a friend while Lewis 
Berners lives, but if ever you should, you know where 
to look for one who would go through fire and water for 
you.” 

“ Oh, I do ! I do indeed !” earnestly replied Emolyn. 

The doctor kissed her hand and gave way to Mr. 
Berners, who entered the carriage and seated himself 
beside Emolyn. 

Then Dr. Willet shook hands with Lewis Berners, 
closed the door, and gave the order : 

“ To the long bridge.” 

The carriage drove off rapidly in one direction, while 
the doctor walked away in another. 

He bent his steps towards the prison. He was a good 
pedestrian, and a rapid walk of twenty minutes brought 
him to the prison just before the hour of closing, which 
was always at sunset. 

Melpomene, who had been sent from the court-room 
to her mistress’s cell to gather and pack up the personal 
effects left there, was now waiting in the passage, 
seated on a large travelling trunk. 

“ I have come to carry you away from this and send 
you to your mistress,” said the doctor, as soon as the 
warder on duty had admitted him. 

“ And, indeed, sir, I am mighty glad to hear it, which 
I do hope as I shall never see sich a forsaken place 


“ Em. 


1 86 


again as long as I have to live in this world,” replied 
the woman. 

The doctor was looking at the great travelling trunk 
in much perplexity. 

“ If you want that carried anywheres, sir, me and Jim 
will be off duty at six o’clock, and we’ll take it away 
for you,” said one of the warders. 

“ I thank you, my friend. It is six now. Can you 
carry it out at once ?” inquired the doctor. 

The man glanced up at the hall clock before he 
trusted himself to answer. 

The clock began to strike the hour. 

“ Yes, sir — we can carry it now. Come, Jim.” 

A strong-looking, red-headed lad answered the sum- 
mons by taking hold of one handle of the trunk, while 
the warder took the other. Between them they carried 
it out. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

TO THE WILDERNESS. 

“ Where, far from all these voices, there is peace.” 

Tennyson. 

“ Where shall I carry it, sir ?” inquired the warder, 
when they had passed the outer gate of the prison. 

The doctor looked up and down the street before re- 
plying. 

There was no passer-by in sight to discover where 
that trunk had come from. 

“ Take it across the street and set it down on the 
pavement before that large boarding-house,” said Dr. 


To the IV ilderness. 


1 87 


Willet, walking on to lead the way, followed by Melpo- 
mene and the men with the trunk. 

“ Set it down here,” said the doctor, indicating the 
spot. 

The men deposited their burden. 

The doctor took out his pocket-book and paid them 
liberally. 

When they had thanked him and gone, the doctor 
turned to the woman and briefly explained what was 
expected of her, adding : 

“ We will wait here until we see some of the carts 
coming home from their work on the public roads, which 
they will presently be doing, as it is now after six o’clock. 
Then we will hail one, and I will put you and the trunk 
on it, and have you taken down to the marsh market. 
I shall walk and get there as soon as you will. There 
we shall be sure to find some of the country people 
with their wagons going home from market to Dranes- 
ville. I will put you and the trunk on one of these, and 
send you on to your mistress. You can tell her, when 
you see her, that if she and her guardian will send me a 
written order to do so, I will go to Green Point and 
take all her effects away, and send them to Mr. Ber- 
ner’s from my house. Do you uuderstand ?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir ; but, laws, sir, poor Miss Emolyn 
haven't got anything there worth the paring of your 
nails, sir. Since old master died she had no money to 
buy her own necessaries, or to give to the poor ; so she 
had to sell all the jewelry and finery she could spare to 
get herself shoes, and hose, and medicine, and such 
things, until Master Lewis came, sir. But I’ll tell her 
all the same,” respectfully answered the woman. 

“ There’s a cart !” exclaimed Dr. Willet, and he sud- 
denly raised his umbrella and signalled the carter, who 
immediately pulled up and touched his hat. 


88 


“ Em. 


“ Can you take this woman and trunk down to the 
marsh market ?’ 

“Well, I might y sir,” replied the man, hesitating and 
rubbing his forehead. 

“ I will give you two dollars for the job,” said Dr. 
Willet. 

“ Thank’y, sir. I’ll do it !” promptly exclaimed the 
man, jumping from his seat and laying hold of the trunk. 

Dr. Willet helped him, and between them they put it 
on the cart. 

“Come, my good woman, look sharp !” said the man, 
as he took Melpomene’s hand and hoisted her into the 
cart. 

“Go on ; I will walk,” said the doctor. 

The man took his seat and started his horse, who, 
tired with the day’s work, travelled but slowly. 

The doctor keeping to the sidewalk, easily kept up 
with them. 

It took them quite half-an-hour to reach the marsh 
market. 

The market hours were over, and the hucksters and 
farmers were already loading up their wagons with the 
produce left over from their sales to return home. 

The doctor told the cartman to pull up and wait for a 
few moments, until he could find a conveyance for the 
woman. 

He went around among the market men inquiring for 
any wagon that might be going to Dranesville, and 
finally he discovered a farmer who was about to start 
home in his wagon, to his farm, a mile beyond that vil- 
lage. He agreed to convey the woman and the trunk 
as far as the Red-Fox Tavern, the. only hotel in the 
place ; but with the quaint generosity of his class and 
country, refused all compensation for an act of courtesy. 
He helped the cartman to transfer the trunk from the 


To the Wilderness. 


89 


cart to the wagon ; then handed Melpomene to her seat 
on the same, climbed to his own place, touched his hat 
to the doctor and drove off. 

Dr. Willet paid the cartman, and then, as the stin had 
set, he turned and walked rapidly home, where he found 
his wife and family rejoicing over the verdict which had 
acquitted Emolyn Wynde worth. 

But not to every household interested in that trial did 
the news of the verdict bring rejoicing. To Mrs. Warde, 
at Green Point, it brought the bitterest disappointment. 

I lf observation and experience did not teach us and 
show us into what beasts and demons ambition and av- 
arice transform men and women, we should deem it 
incredible that any human spirit should be so deeply 
sunk into the idiocy of the love of self and of the world 
as to desire the sacrifice of another, by a cruel and igno- 
minious death, for the sake of selfish advancement, as 
Mrs. Warde desired and planned the immolation of the 
innocent young creature who stood between her and the 
inheritance of Wynde Slopes. 

But the verdict of acquittal had defeated all her plans. 
{She had committed crime fruitlessly. She had loaded 
her soul with sin in vain. She carried about with her 
the burden of a guilty conscience, without even the 
poor compensation of success in her schemes, 

And now, on this afternoon of the rendering of the 
verdict, as she walked up and down the floor of her 
room, raging inwardly like a lioness in her cage, her 
thoughts ran in this wise : 

“ So she is acquitted ! Yes, and vindicated with 
iclat ! She has gone away with her guardian, Lewis 
Berners. In two years she will be mistress of Wynde 
[Slopes, the fair estate for which I have lost my soul in 
vain ! I hate her ! I hate her ! I hate her ! Yes, I 

} 

hate her for standing between me and my just inheri- 


190 


“ Em. 


tance ! I hate her because her position tempted me to 
fruitless crime ! I hate her for my failure and for her 
triumph! Oh! how I hate Emolyn Wyndeworth ! I 
will pursue and destroy her yet ! I will ! I will ! I 
will !” 

In the fierce strength of her rage, she ground her 
teeth together as if she would have ground them to 
powder, and clenched her fists till her nails drew blood 
from the palms of her hands. 

Her fury was interrupted by a knock at the door. 

“Come in !” she sternly exclaimed. 

Old Monica entered the room. 

“ What do you want ?” she sharply demanded. 

“If you please, ma’am, we, dem culled people down 
de kitchen, hab heerd how our Miss Em’lyn is ’quitted, 
and I come to ast you whedder I must ’pare her room 
for her,” said the old woman, courtesying. 

“ Prepare a room for her exclaimed Mrs. Warde, 
darkly frowning. “ Prepare a room for that murderess ? 
Do you dare to suppose that I shall take such a guilty 
and dishonored wretch back into my house?” 

“Only I thought, as the court had quitted her, 
ma’am,” humbly suggested Monica. 

“ Acquitted her!” mocked Mrs. Warde, with bitter 
irony. “ Acquitted her ! Yes, acquitted her, from their 
weak compassion for her youth — not knowing her old 
age in sin ! Leave the room, and don’t dare to mention 
the name of that girl in this house again !” 

“ If you please ma’am — ” 

“ Silence, I say ! and begone !” 

“ I was only gwine to say as Ann Whitlock were 
down in the kitchen a wantin’ to see you very particu- 
lar,” persevered the woman. 

“ Ann Whitlock ! Mrs. Whitlock, the nurse from the 


To tae Wilderness. 


191 


hospital, you mean ?” exclaimed Mrs. Warde, with a 
sudden change of color. 

“ Yes, ma’am, her.” 

“Send her up to me. Wants some assistance, I sup- 
pose,” continued the lady, by way of explaining the 
visit that caused her some inward disturbance. 

Old Monica left the room, and Mrs. Warde walked 
up and down the floor more uneasily than before. 

“What can that blundering idiot want now ? It is 
the curse of those who have to deal with such dull 
brutes that they can never feel sure of them, never feel 
safe with them !” she muttered to herself. 

The door opened, and Mrs. Whitlock entered, red- 
eyed, bloated, whimpering, maudlin. 

“ Ah ! you are a cheering and encouraging subject !” 
said Mrs. Wai'de to herself. Then aloud — “ Sit down, 
Whitlock, and tell me what you want.” 

“ Oh ! ma’am,” whined the woman, “ sure I’m turned 
out iv my situation at the hospital !” 

“ Well, I should think you would be — looking at you ! 
But tell me why you were turned out.” 

“ Oh ! dear ma’am, ever since that night — that dread- 
ful, horrid, awful night — ” 

Mrs. Warde frowned darkly and threateningly ; but 
the nurse, who was not looking at her, continued : 

“ I have been that low-spirited and heavy-hearted 
that I have had to take a dhrop of the crayture, now 
and again, just to keep the life intil me. And so they 
did make that a cause iv complaint ag’in me, ma’am, 
and, be raison av the confusion that was in it, they 
turned me off this very morning,” whimpered the 
woman. 

“ And what do you want me to do ?” sarcastically 
inquired Mrs. Warde. 


192 


“ Em. 


“ Sure, to ricommind me to another situation, or to 
give me the manes of living, till I get one meself !” 

“ And I am to recommend you as a sober and trust- 
worthy person ?” sneered Malvina Warde. 

“ Ah, sure, ma’am, ye’ll not be casting that same in 
my teeth when I tell you it was all along that horrid, 
awful, terrible night’s work as lays so heavy on my 
soul !” 

“ Be silent, woman !” sternly exclaimed Mrs. 
Warde. “ Never speak of that night’s work again ! 
Never even allude to it again ! No ! never so much as 
harbor a thought of it, if you can help it !” 

“ I don’t want to, ma’am, which is the raison why I 
thry to dhrive it out with the dhrink.”^ 

“ Listen to me now ! You know that^ix months ago 
I could have put you in prison for theft, do you not ?” 

“ Oh, ma’am, yon’d never a done the likes of that to a 
poor crayture like meself,” whined the nurse, shudder- 
ing and collapsing. 

“ I should have done so if you had not served my 
turn,” grimly replied the lady. 

“ But I did serve it, ma’am. I did serve it faithful !” 

“ You did ! and so now I could send you to the gal- 
lows for murder !” 

The wretched woman shrieked, and covered her face 
with her hands. 

Malvina Warde continued ruthlessly : 

“ That child was proven to have been strangled ! The 
jury has acquitted Emolyn Wyndeworth of the child’s 
death. You were the only other woman in the room 
that night !” 

“The child was born dead! Oh, it was indeed, 
ma’am !” sobbed the terrified woman. 

“ Convince a jury of that !” sneered Mrs. Warde. 

“ But I couldn't a hurt a little baby, ma’am, no ! not even 











> 


V . 












''O 




* 




* 










To the Wilderness. 


193 


to please you and save me from going- to prison ! Bad 
as I am, I couldn’t a done that same !” persisted the 
woman. 

“ Convince a jury of that !” repeated Mrs. Warde. 

The nurse burst into hysterical sobs and tears, mut- 
tering to herself : 

“ I have sold my soul to the devil, and the more I try 
to get free, the more I fall into the pit.” 

“ Now compose yourself, and listen to me, Mrs. Whit- 
lock. If you follow my directions and obey my will you 
shall be free and prosperous. If you do not — you know 
the consequences. Do you hear me ?” 

“ Yes, ma’am,” sighed the woman. 

“ Very well. Go now and find a room for yourself in 
this neighborhood. Let me know when you have se- 
cured it, and I will send enough of old furniture from 
the house here to fit it up. Then I will pay you a small 
■stipend a week to keep you. And this is what you must 
jdo. You must find Emolyn Wyndeworth.” 

“ Sure, that will be aisy enough, ma’am, for she will be 
in the city with the gardeen.” 

“Not so! The evening papers say that she is sup- 
posed to have left the city, and no one knows whither 
she has gone. The reporters are at fault. Now, of 
course I know, Mrs. Whitlock, that you will not prove 
a very intelligent detective, nor shall I expect you to 
find the ‘clew to her secret hiding-place but / shall 
seek traces of her, and when I find them, I shall put the 
clews in your hands, and expect you to follow them un- 
til you hunt her down.” 

“ And if I do, what then, ma’am ?” 

“ Then I shall give you further instructions. Go now 
and look for your room.” 

The wretched woman got up, nodded to the lady, 


194 


“ Em. 


sighed and departed, muttering within her oppressed 
and confused mind : 

“ Sold to Satan ! Sold to Satan ! Oh, I wish both 
my hands had been scalded before I ever fetched them 
jewels, which I do b’lieve she left in my way o’ purpose 
to tempt me to take ’em, and that a way to get me in her 
power and make me do things as she is afeared to do 
herself, bad and bold as she is. Ah ! bad women is the 
devil, and she’s one of ’em.” 

And so, groaning and sighing that her past peccadil- 
loes had forced her on in the downward path that leads 
to deeper crime — to death and hell — the woman went 
on her evil mission. But first to find a room as a place 
from which to act. She bent her steps towards the poor- 
est section of the neighborhood, where the humblest 
lodgings might be found. 

She went up one street and down another, until she 
came to a narrow alley, where a slip of a sign-board bore 
the inscription, “ Laundress Lane.” 

The place hardly needed the sign. The alley was 
built up on each side with small, irregular houses of 
different sizes, materials and colors — some being of red 
brick, some of painted wood, some two stories high and 
some only one. But they were all alike in this particu- 
lar, that they had not a foot of front yard, but opened 
directly upon the street, if the long and narrow marsh, 
or gutter, receptacle of all the soap-suds of Laundress 
Lane, could be called a street. From the roofs of the 
houses on either side lines were stretched, filled with 
the clothes that had been washed out that day and were 
now dripping and drying. 

Even on the sunniest day there was always an atmos- 
phere of dripping dampness in Laundress Lane. 

“ Law ! No wonder the people here are, one or 


To the Wilderness. 


T 95 


another, everlasting in the hospital !” muttered Mrs. 
Whitlock, sneezing, as she turned into the lane. 

She picked her way through the sloppy thoroughfare, 
looking from side to side on the squalid houses until she 
came to one little two-storied dwelling on the right hand, 
whose whitewashed walls, clear windows, and clean 
doorstep formed a creditable contrast to the other build- 
ings. 

Beside the neatly-painted door a well-written card 
hung, bearing the sign : 

Fine Washing and Fluting. 

A Room to Let. 

Ann Whitlock rapped at the door with her fist, there 
being neither bell nor knocker attached to this humble 
portal. 

The door was immediately opened, and Susan Palmer 
appeared. 

Each woman started on seeing the other. 

Mrs. Whitlock was the first to speak : 

“ Faix, Mrs. Palmer, I didn’t know as you lived here !” 
she exclaimed, and she impatiently turned as if to run 
away. 

“ Oh, come in ! Come in, do y please. I haven't seen 
you since I left the hospital, two weeks ago a Monday, 
but I never should forget, if I live to be a hundred, how 
good you were to me and the baby,” said kindly Susan 
Palmer, pulling the accidental visitor into the house, 
and popping her down in a chair. 

“ But I didn’t know you was a living here. I was only 
a looking for lodgings,” said the ex-nurse, deprecat- 
ingly, 

“ Well, but I do live here, and you shall have the room 
before any one else in the world, and cheaper too, and 


196 


“ Em. 


when it ain’t convenient for you to pay the rent you 
sha’n’t be worritted on that account, for I never shall 
forget how good you were to me and the baby in the 
hospital. Why, Mrs. Whitlock, I do perfectly believe if 
;it hadn’t a been for you, that baby would a died ! Why, 
didn’t the doctor say as it were born dead and couldn’t 
be resuspirated ? But you was good to me and let me 
take my poor, little, cold baby on my warm bosom in 
the bed, and that’s what brought her to, for I know 
when I fell asleep with her in my arms she seemed 
dead, and when I woke up she was alive, and sniffing 
and nestling to find her milk. Now, I know, and so do 
:you, if she had been laid out on the cooling-board, she’d 
,a died, sure enough.” 

“ So she would,” muttered the nurse. 

“ It was through you she wasn’t laid there. You 
saved her life, Mrs. Whitlock, and thankful I shall 
always be to you.” 

“Oommee,” groaned the woman, “ are you’ so thank- 
ful as that child lived when you have so many other 
mouths to feed ?” 

“ Thankful ! Ah ! only the Lord knows how grate- 
ful the mother is when her child is saved,” said Susan 
Palmer, while the tears that sprang to her eyes attested 
the truthfulness of her words. 

“And your husband, thin, Mr. Palmer, mightn’t he a 
been just as well pleased if this child had been taken 
away where it would a been better off than it is here ? 
Don’t he feel as if he had children enough already ?” 

“ Who, John ? — Lord bless his dear old heart — no. 
The more children we have, the better he likes ’em. I 
do b’lieve if I was to give him two babies every year, 
instead of one, he’d always think the last one was the 
sweetest and purtiest and loveliest of the lot. That’s 


To the Wilderness. 


19 7 


my husband, Heaven bless him ! Hard work don’t 
hurt him ; but when a child is taken from us — and oh ! 
so many have been taken — it breaks his heart.” 

“ And so, thin, you are both av you pleased to have 
this baby ?” 

“ ‘ Pleased !’ Oh, don’t mention it ! ‘ Pleased !’ Why, 
we are delighted. And as for John, why, when he’s in 
the house, the baby’s hardly ever out of his arms. You 
see she is so different from all the other children ! She 
has such delicate features, and such a fair skin, and 
such heavenly blue eyes ! He just dotes on her, and she 
on him.” 

“ Well, I am glad somebody's happy in it, anyhow.” 

“ Ah ! I am happy all through this evening. I have 
just heard of my dear Miss Emolyn’s acquittal. (I don’t 
know her married name, although I am sure she is 
married.) You used to know her when you were help- 
ing to take care of old Captain Wyndeworth at Green 
Point ; and you must remember how good she was to 
everybody. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for the 
poor, either in giving them things, or in lending them 
books, or doing any kind of work for them that they 
couldn’t do. Why she even wrote that sign for me 
that you saw hanging over the door. You must have 
seen how good she was.” 

“ I didn’t see much of her while I was at Green 
Point,” said the visitor, in a low voice. 

“ Oh, then, that was because you had to stay in the 
old captain’s room, which she was hardly ever let to 
enter. But anyway, ain’t you glad that she is freed ?” 

“ Glad !” exclaimed the strange woman, breaking 
into energy. “ Glad ain’t no word for it ! Pm as 
thankful as if it was myself as was set free ! for I tell 
you now the truth, if that gal had suffered death I 
should a dhrank myself into my grave, for I couldn’t a 


“ Em. 


198 


stood it ! Why honey, let me tell you one thing. I 
was so worked up about that gal’s trial, that — I couldn't 
help it — I took more liquor than was good for me, and 
so to-day the head matron turned me out iv my place.” 

“ I am very sorry to hear that, but you know liquor 
never helps anything. It always makes everything 
worse. But never mind that now. I will let you have 
the room up stairs, and I can get washing for you to do, 
and help you all I can ; for I never shall forget you 
saved my baby’s life.” 

Ann Whitlock sighed deeply, murmuring to herself : 

“ Well, in all this dreadful work, I’m glad as some 
one is pleased.” 

“ When will you want to move in ?” inquired Mrs. 
Palmer. 

“ To-morrow. A lady has promised to give me some 
old furniture, which I will fetch in the morning. But 
if you could give me a pallet in the empty room to- 
night, I’d be willing to pay you for it, for, to tell you 
the truth, since laving the hospital, I haven’t got a 
home to go to.” 

“ Surely, surely, you shall sleep in the best bed in the 
house, ‘ without money and without price,’ for didn’t 
you save my baby’s life ? So now take off your bonnet 
and make yourself easy. I have sent the children with 
the baby out for a walk in the Arsenal grounds, where 
it is dry and sunny. When they get back, and John 
comes from his work, then we will have tea.” 

“ Faith !” sighed Ann Whitlock. “I’m glad in all 
this some one is pleased and happy.” 



CHAPTER XIX. 

THE WORKMAN’S HOME. 

I know he’s coming, by this sign : 

That baby’s almost wild ! 

See how she smiles and coos and starts, — 

Heaven bless the loving child ! 

Laugh, baby, laugh ! Stretch out thy hands. 

Thy father on the threshold stands ! 

Mary Howitt. 

Susan Palmer took Ann Whitlock tip a narrow flight 
of stairs, leading from the tiny parlor to the front 
chamber above. 

This was a small room, looking down through two 
little windows into the lane below. 

It contained no sort of furniture, except a large old 
arm-chair. 

“ This is the room as I have got to let, Mrs. Whitlock, 
which you are heartily welcome to it. Sit ye down in 
this easy-chair. It is a wonderful, restful chair, if it is 
old and ramshackley ! I keep it up here, you see, ’cause 
I haven’t got no room for it down stairs. So you’re 
heartily welcome to *7, too, for that matter. Sit ye down, 
dear woman, and give me your things, and I’ll just hang 
’em up in the closet.” 

“ Oome ! Ah !” sighed Ann Whitlock, as she sank in- 

1199 ] 


200 


“ Em. 


to the big, old chair, and took off her bonnet and shawl 
and handed them to her hostess. 

Mrs. Palmer put them away in the little, narrow closet 
and then turned to her guest, saying : 

“ Now, I shall make you a comfortable bed down on 
the floor here, and to-morrow, when your furniture 
comes, I will help you to put it in order.” 

“ Thanky, Susan Palmer ; you’re a kind-hearted 
creater and a deal kinder to me ’an I deserve,” sighed 
the ex-nurse. 

“ Oh, no, no, no !” protested Mrs. Palmer. “ I couldn’t 
be.” 

“ Yes you could, and you are ! But now tell me, how 
much a month can you let me have this room for ?” 

“ For your own price, my dear woman, and, for the 
matter of that, if you were never to pay me, I am sure 
I would never ask you for it ! No, never! For, law, 
didn’t you save my baby’s life ? The fool young doctors 
said it was dead, when it was only torpid and cold as a 
stone, and if you had listened to them and laid it out on 
a cooling board, it would have died sure enough ! But 
you listened to me, though you did think it was only my 
whim, and you put the poor, little, stone cold baby in 
my bed, and I cuddled it up to my warm bosom and 
warmed it back to life ! Why, law, I shall never forget 
my feelings next morning when I was woke up by the 
baby, crying and wiggling and nestling at me as nat’ral 
as a young kitten ! Ah ! It was all through you that 
them fool young men didn’t let my baby die ! Yes, and 
it is owing to you that my baby is alive to-day ! So you 
see, dear woman, I couldn’t do too much for you, and 
no more could John, and he knows it too.” 

“ Oome !” sighed Mrs. Whitlock, rubbing her knees. 

“ Now, I want you to sit in that deep, soft chair, until 


The Workmen! s Home. 


201 


you are well-rested, and by that time John and the young 
ones will be home, and we will have supper.” 

With these kindly words, good-hearted Susan Palmer 
tripped down stairs, leaving her guest alone. 

Ann Whitlock was bad enough at her best, but she 
was not irreclaimably evil. She had been a thief ; and 
though she had never deliberately meditated robbery, 
yet, under the strong temptation of necessity or oppor- 
tunity, she could not resist the impulse to appropriate 
the property of others. She had been an inebriate; for 
she could not endure any pain of body or mind that she 
could drown in strong drink. 

Yet notwithstanding these two detestable vices of 
dishonesty and intemperance, the poor creature was 
not wholly evil. 

She was not bold, cruel or remorseless in her wicked- 
ness. On the contrary, she was the very opposite of all 
these. She was timid, tender-hearted and compunc- 
tious. 

Had Mrs. Malvina Warde been a true discerner of 
spirits, she must have paused long before making such 
a soul her confederate in crime, even though she had 
already taken that soul in her toils by exposing it to the 
strong temptation under which it fell ! By threats of 
prosecution and imprisonment, she had driven this 
weak soul on from crime to crime in her own demoniac 
service, yet she could not still within it the deep voice 
of conscience, which constantly made itself heard, and 
'which one day might make itself obeyed. 

Left alone in her bare chamber, the ex-hospital nurse 
leaned back in her old chair and sighed wearily. 

“ Let nobody never do nothing in this world as is a 
going to weigh heavy on their hearts,” she muttered to 
herself. “They had better die and be done with it, so 
they had ! But thanks be to goodness, things ain’t half 


202 


“ Em . 


so bad as they might a been, and as that there she-devil 
as has got me in her power, wanted ’em to be ! When- 
ever I pray, ‘ deliver us from evil,’ 1 think only ‘ deliver 
me from Madame Warde !’ No, things ain’t nothing 
like as bad as they might a been, and as she ’tended for 
them to be ! That poor, dear, innocent gal is ’quitted 
by the jury ! Law ! if — if they had a ’demned that 
poor, innocent gal to death, I should a had to a ’fessed, 
even if I had been sent to prison ! for what is prison 
compared to having of the death of an innocent gal on 
my conscience ? But, the poor gal is ’quitted and gone 
away along of her good guardian to some city of refuge. 
So much for her. And as for the baby, why Susan and 
John Palmer is both a deal happier in gaining of this 
pretty, little, live baby than they would a been a griev- 
ing after that dead baby ! And it was dead ! dead as a 
stone ! dead as a door nail ! dead as Darius, King of 
Babylon ! when this she-devil put the marks around its 
neck ! But, oh, deary me ! I end where I begun. Let 
nobody never do nothing that hangs heavy on their 
hearts. And now, by the bustle I hear down stairs, I 
reckon the children have come in, and so I’ll just go 
down, and see one on ’em at least. And here I’ll stay in 
this house and watch over that one, and do it all the 
good I can, as long as we both shall live.” 

With these words, Ann Whitlock went down stairs to 
the little parlor, which was empty, and on through that 
to the little back kitchen, which was full ; for there was 
Susan Palmer, busy over a bright, little cooking stove, 
making tea and frying ham and eggs. And there were 
the two boys, John, aged twelve, and James, aged ten, 
and the two dark-eyed girls, Ann, aged eight, and Jane, 
aged six years — and there was the little, fair, blue-eyed, 
flaxen-haired babe of a few weeks old. 

The eldest boy, John, held the baby in his arms as 


The Workman s Home. 


203 


carefully and tenderly as any woman could have 
done. 

The children had just come in, and John, junior, was 
saying : 

“You see, mother, Nan got tired, and so I took Em. 
in my own arms and brought her home, and she was just 
as good as a little kitten.” 

“Mother, I didn’t want Jack to take Em. away from 
me, ’cause I’d rather a broken my back toting Em. than 
let a boy tote her, anyway,” added Nan, by way of ex- 
planation and complaint. 

“ Oh, sho !” put in Jim ; “ Em. likes boys, anyhow ! 
Just you see how she takes to pappy ! She likes him a 
dealbetter’n she do mammy!” 

“ ’Cept when she’s hundry,” cutely remarked little 
J enny. 

“Now what do you know about it, Jen. ?” inquired 
the first speaker. 

“ Come, come, children, don’t dispute ! ‘ Let dogs 

delight,’ you know. And besides, don’t you see we have 
got company ? What will Mrs. Whitlock think of you ? 
Go speak to her directly, all of you, and ask her how she 
does,” said Susan Palmer. 

And though this ceremony seemed, under the circum- 
stances, to be equally formal and awkward, the well- 
trained children obeyed their mother, and one by one 
they went up shyly and said : 

“ How do you, ma’am ?” 

And each in turn received the answer : 

“ Pretty well, I thank you, honey.” 

“And now, Jim, set a chair for Mrs. Whitlock,” said 
his mother. 

Jim complied, and the visitor seated herself. 

“ Now, Ann, do you set the table.” 


204 


“Em. 


Nan flew to draw the pine table from the wall, and to 
cover it with a clean, white cloth. 

“ Jack, put the baby down in the cradle, and run up 
the lane to see if your father is coming/'* 

Jack, with the baby in his arms, made for the cradle; 
but was stopped by Mrs. Whitlock, who held out her 
arms, saying : 

“ Here, boy, give me the child." 

Jack set the baby on her lap and ran out of the house 
to look for his father. 

“ It’s time John was in, that’s certain," said the wife, 
a little anxiously. 

As she spoke the baby’s eyes lighted up and it made 
a little bound and crow. 

“ Do look at that child now ! She saw her father 
before any of us, and here he is !" exclaimed Susan 
Palmer, as her husband entered the kitchen, drawn by 
their son. 

“ Here he is, mammy; I caught him just outside the 
door and brought him in, prisoner." 

“ Sich is life," said John laughing. 

“ What will you have done with him ?" inquired Jack, 
as he pretended to hold the captive with an iron grasp. 

Susan Palmer looked from the laughing boy to the 
stalwart, smiling man, and answered : 

“ I will have him set down in his old arm-chair, and I 
will have his wet boots taken off, and dry shoes brought 
to him, and then I’ll have a basin of water and a crash 
towel brought for him, that he may wash his hands be- 
fore supper, and, lastly, I will have his pipe cleaned out 
and filled with fresh tobacco, so that he may smoke as 
soon as he has eaten." 

“ Now, prisoner, you hear what the judge has said, 
don’t you ? Now sit right down here, and keep quiet 
until you are waited on and made comfortable, or it will 


The Workman' s Home. 


205 


be worse for you,” said Jack, drawing his father towards 
the great arm-chair, and seating him in it. 

“ Give me the baby, then ! Give me my little Em. ! 
Oh?” exclaimed John, as in looking after Em. he dis- 
covered her nurse. “ Ah ! I beg your pardon, ma’am. 
I did not see you before, ma’am. How do you do ?” 

“ It’s Mrs. Ann Whitlock, John, the hospital nurse, you 
know, who saved little Em.’s life, when the doctors 
would have given her up for dead,” said Susan Palmer, 
almost reproachfully, as if John ought to have divined 
by instinct the presence of so good a friend and great a 
benefactress. 

“ Oh ! indeed !” exclaimed honest John, with his face 
lighting up. “ I am very glad to know you, ma’am, and 
to have a chance of telling you, what my Susan must 
have told you long ago, how thankful we all feel to you 
for saving this little darling’s life. Will you let me take 
her in my own arms a bit, ma’am ?” he inquired, gently 
lifting little Em. from the lap of her temporary nurse. 

“ Ah ! My Susan will tell you that I always dote on 
the youngest child the most, and so I do ; but, Lor’ bless 
you ! I think this little thing have wound itself around 
my heart-strings even more than any of the rest has 
done. Well, I s’pose it’s because she is so dif’ent from 
the rest,” he continued, tossing the babe in his arms, 
and smiling broadly over it. “ All the rest is so dark 
and heavy -featured, like me,” he laughed, holding the 
child up with one broad hand, while he ran the other 
over his own swarthy face and thick, black beard. 

“ And no wonder she is fair and delicate,” put in Susan 
Palmer ; “ she is the living image of Miss Emolyn 
Wyndeworth, as I named her after — the living image, 
as is quite natural, for I do declare, for months and 
months before the baby came, I never had that poor, 
unhappy young lady out of my mind !” 


206 


“ Em. 


“ Well, I don’t know what the reason is, but I know 
she is a beauty and a darling, and pappy’s own pet,” 
exclaimed John, in the foolishness of his fatherly heart. 

“ And you are both very glad the baby lived, ain’t you 
now ?” inquired Mrs. Whitlock. 

“ Glad ? Why, of course we are ! Glad and thank- 
ful to Heaven and to you, Mrs. Whitlock,” said John 
Palmer, heartily. 

“ Whatever could a made you ask such a question as 
that ?” inquired Susan, in a tone of surprise. 

“ Oh, nothing. Only there’s many married people as 
don’t want babies, and won’t have ’em !” answered 
Ann Whitlock. 

“ Then I think they are unnatural monsters, unfit to 
live themselves,” said Susan, decidedly. 

By this time Jack had brought his “ pappy’s ” dry 
shoes, and Ann had got a basin of water and a towel, 
and even little Jim had filled his father’s pipe. 

So John made himself ready for supper, while Susan 
placed the tea, bread and butter, and bacon and eggs 
on the table. 

Parents, children, and guest gathered around the 
board. 

John kept the baby in his lap while he helped his 
companions to the fare before him ; and then he would 
immediately have fed the baby with bacon and eggs if 
he had not been prevented by the women ! 

It was a merry meal, and even Ann Whitlock, not- 
withstanding her oppressed conscience was beguiled 
into good spirits. 

When supper was over, many busy little hands soon 
cleared away the simple service, and then Susan Palmer 
and John, between them, carried a mattress and blan- 
kets up into the room above and made a comfortable 
bed for Mrs. Whitlock. 


The Workman' s Home . 


20 7 


\ 


It was a well- filled little house. John and Susan and 
the two younger children slept in the bed in the parlor. 
The two boys and the eldest girl slept in a little loft 
over the kitchen, divided into two apartments by the 
simple means of a blanket stretched across from wall to 
wall. Mrs. Whitlock had the front room over the par- 
lor. 

Steady working people are early birds, and so the 
household soon separated and retired to rest. 

The next morning, directly after breakfast, when 
John had gone to his work and the children to school, 
Mrs. Whitlock, leaving Susan Palmer “ in the wash-tub ” 
and the baby in the cradle, set off to walk to Green 
Point to tell Mrs. Warde that she had found a room. 

Malvina Warde questioned her closely as to the local- 
ity of this room, and Ann Whitlock merely replied that 
it was in the house of a laboring man named Palmer. 

This conyeyed no particular information to Mrs. 
Warde, who knew nothing of the family ; but she 
cautioned Ann Whitlock not to let her tongue run, and 
then, having exhorted her to be diligent in her search 
for Emolyn, and having presented her with a few neces- 
sary articles of furniture, scarcely worth carting away, 
she dismissed the unhappy tool. 

Mrs. Warde used every means in her power to dis- 
cover the retreat of Emolyn, but without success. 

At length she thought of Doctor Willet and his strong 
attachment to the unhappy girl, and, feigning illness, 
she sent for the doctor to attend her. 

The physician came, as in duty bound, and was 
shown up into Mrs. Warde’s dressing-room, where he 
found his patient, arrayed in a very becoming dressing 
gown of crimson silk, and propped up in an easy-chair. 

“ I am sorry to find you indisposed, madame. I hope it 


208 


“ Em. 


is nothing serious,” said the doctor, politely, as he sat 
down by her side and felt her pulse. 

Mrs. Warde spoke in a faint voice, complaining of 
sleeplessness, loss of appetite, languor, vertigo, and so 
on. 

The doctor thought her malady must be what is com- 
monly called .spring-fever, and he prescribed a tonic, 
and arose to take leave ; but Mrs. Warde lifted her 
hand and, by a sign, detained him : 

“ Pray, re-seat yourself, Dr. Willet ; I have some- 
thing to ask you about. I hate to revert to such a pain- 
ful subject, but I cannot divest myself of all feeling of 
interest in the fate of that unhappy girl, Emolyn 
Wyndeworth,” she said, and paused for a reply. 

The doctor only bowed and kept silence. 

“ Can you tell me where her guardian has taken her, 
or what has become of her?” at length inquired Mrs. 
Warde. 

“ I really cannot, madame,” coldly replied Dr. Willet, 
for he could not forget the cruel conduct of this hard 
woman to her helpless relative. 

“ I really cannot tell you where she is, or anything 
about her, except that she is out of our reach.” 

“ But you know that much at least, which is more 
than any one else knows, I presume.” 

“ Yes, and I know it principally through a letter 
from herself, received only yesterday. This letter was 
without date, and postmarked simply New York City. 
In it she said she wrote to express warm gratitude for 
what she was pleased to term my inestimable services to 
her (though they were indeed no more than what any 
Christian man in my place would have rendered any 
woman in hers). She thanked me with exaggerated 
earnestness, and then took a final leave of me, saying 
that she wished her name and memory to die out from 


The Workman s Home. 


209 


the minds of all who had ever known her ; that she might 
never be talked of, heard of, or even thought of, again 
by any one, even by me. That is all I have to tell you, 
Mrs. Warde ! From that you may know she is lost to 
us forever.” 

“ She hopes to find some retreat in the uttermost parts 
of the earth where her degradation may remain un- 
known ; yet she can never hope that her name can be 
buried in oblivion here,” said Mrs. Warde, tartly. 

“ No,” gravely and sadly replied the doctor ; “ she will 
not be forgotten here, but will be remembered with 
tenderest gratitude by all the poor whom she has suc- 
cored, and with prayerful love and pity by all the friends 
she has won. Heaven bless arid comfort her ! Good 
morning, madame !” 

And the doctor, fearing to lose his self-control by stay- 
ing a moment longer in the exasperating presence of 
Mrs. Warde, abruptly departed. 

“ She has gone abroad, I suppose,” said Malvina 
Warde. 

Whether the lady’s conjecture was true or false re- 
gains to be seen ; but many years passed before the 
(fate of Emolyn Wyndeworth was known. 

And now, since Emolyn had passed out of her reach, 
Malvina Warde had no sufficient motive to detain her in 
the city, during the summer ; nor, since the failure of 
all her plans, did she find her income sufficient to keep 
up the costly establishment at Green Point. 

1 For all real estate and personal property she had only 
the mansion and its furniture and her own wardrobe 
and jewels. And for all income she had only her pen- 
sion as a major’s widow. 

Certainly a woman of domestic habits and temperate 
desires might have lived on this income at Green Point, 
and even indulged moderately in social life. 


2 10 


“ Em.” 


But Malvina Warde had no love of her home, no taste 
for hospitality. She was selfish, sensual, vain, and ex- 
travagant. She wished to spend all her income on her 
own personal appetites, vanities, pleasures, and extrav- 
agancies. 

She knew that she could easily let Green Point fur- 
nished, and thus more than double her present income, 
and be able to go to a first-class hotel at some gay and 
fashionable watering-place, where she could spend the 
summer, and, perhaps, attract some unmarried old mil- 
lionaire and ensnare him into matrimony. 

As soon as she had decided on this plan she hastened 
to carry it into execution. 

It happened, about this time, that Mrs. Ann Whitlock 
called at Green Point, according to standing orders, to 
receive Mrs. Warde’s instructions. 

She found that lady busily engaged in writing an ad- 
vertisement for her furnished house. 

“ Sit down, Whitlock, and hear what I have got to say. 
It will not take long. You need not seek Emolyn 
Wyndeworth any longer. She has gone abroad to hide 
herself in some remote foreign country where her story 
is unknown. I myself am about to leave the city for a 
long absence. I shall make you a present of the furni- 
ture I let you have for your room. Here are ten dollars 
to keep you until you can get work. After this, you 
must not expect anything more from me. And now I 
must solemnly warn you of one thing — not to let your 
old tongue run on the . subject of Emolyn Wyndeworth ! 
for if you do, just as sure as you live, it will run you in- 
to prison, or on to the gallows ! You hear me, do you 
not ?” 

“ Oh, madame, yes ! ” replied the trembling woman. 

“ Here, then, are your ten dollars. And now good- 
by, for I am busy.” 


The Workman' s Home. 


2 1 1 


“ I thank you kindly, madame ; and I will obey your 
orders and bid you good-by,” answered the woman, as 
she courtesied respectfully and left the room. 

But her whole aspect changed as soon as she found 
herself free of the house. 

Now, thanks be to goodness,” she said, as her face 
lighted up with gladness — “ I have got shet of that she 
devil ! I feel just like Christian in the Pilgrim’s Prog- 
ress, when he dropped his load of sin — I do, indeed ! 
Lor’s knows I do ! Joy go with you, Mrs. Mai winy 
Warde ! And may you live long, and a long way from 
here ! ” 

So saying, she hurried toward Laundry Lane. 

“ I tell you what, Susan Palmer,” she exclaimed, as 
she entered the laborer’s cottage and found his wife up 
to her elbows in a deep wash-tub — “ if you have more 
work than you can get along with, here am I ready to 
help you ; for the time has come as my means is getting 
low, and I.must do something for a living.” 

“ Dear woman, this very morning I refused a en- 
gagement to go to Dr. Willet’s to wash and iron, three 
days out of every week, for a dollar a day, and the 
mistress ask me to try to find her a laundress. So if 
you are a hankering after work, why there it is ; though, 
for my part, I don’t see why you should trouble your- 
self to work for your living, when I tell you that I shall 
never ask you for rent, and shall always set a chair at 
our table for you,” said kind-hearted Susan Palmer. 

“ Fiddle ! Pm not agoing to set right down on top o’ 
you and John, and take the children’s bread out’n their 
mouths ! No ! Soon’s ever I’ve rested, I’m gwine to 
the doctor’s to engage that washing.” 

Mrs. Whitlock was as good as her word, and the 
same afternoon betook herself to Dr. Willet’s, and con- 
tracted to keep the family in clean clothes for a certain 


212 


“ Em. 


stipend a week, which, small as it was, sufficed for the 
woman’s moderate needs. 

And let it be now recorded of this faulty creature, 
that from the day she was delivered from the devil, in 
the shape of Mrs. Warde, she never again took what did 
not belong to her, or drank more than w r as good for her. 

She continued to live with the Palmers, both giving 
and receiving help, and carefully watching over little 
Em. 

About the first of July Mrs. Warde, having let her 
furnished house to advantage, and left her neglected 
daughter to spend all the mid-summer holidays at the 
school where she boarded, went off to Saratoga, where 
she took a suit of apartments in one of the best hotels, 
and threw herself into the vortex of gay and fashion- 
able life. 

And thenceforth, for years, Mrs. Warde left her 
daughter, first, as a parlor boarder, and then as an as- 
sistant teacher in the cheap boarding school where the 
girl had been educated, while she lived exclusively in 
the most expensive hotels, spending her summers at 
fashionable watering-places, and her winters in gay 
cities, and squandering all her income on her own pride, 
vanity and sensuality, while she forever schemed to en- 
trap some wealthy man into marriage. 


CHAPTER XX. 



EM. 

How swift the years, how fast the chain 
That rattles on our brief to-day ; 

Before its echo comes again, 

The present will have passed away. 

James Sterling. 

Emolyn Bruce was a child of fifteen years when she 
vanished from our view. 

She will be a woman of thirty when we meet her 
again. 

Meanwhile our story takes up her little namesake, Em., 
| the favorite child of John and Susan Palmer, “ the flower 
jof their flock.” 

We must pass quickly over the infancy and childhood 
of Em., pausing only to note some peculiar traits of 
character which made her seem so different from her 
stronger and ruder sisters and brothers. 

In person, this child was very small for her age, with 
a perfectly proportioned form ; slender, well-turned 
limbs ; tiny, prettily shaped hands and feet ; a little, 
round head, adorned with a light growth of pale, gold- 
tinted curls ; a little, oval face, with small, clear-cut 
features ; a complexion like an apple-blossom, pearly 
white and pale red; and large, soft light blue eyes fringed 
with lashes and arched with brows rather darker than 
her hair. 


[■213] 


214 


“ Em. 


Em. was beautiful in repose — when sleeping in her 
cradle, or on her mother’s bosom ; but she was more 
beautiful in animation, when wide awake, on her father’s 
knee, dancing with flying feet and hands and sparkling 
eyes. 

Infant beauty is one of the most potent love-charms 
in this world, and Em. possessed it in full perfection. 
Hence she became the idolized darling of the gentle 
workman’s home. 

It was not, however, her outward beauty alone that 
won all hearts ; it was the inward beauty that soon shone 
from her infant spirit. 

I She loved, and strangely — she pitied all about her, as 
if she intuitively felt the hardness of their lot ; or as if 
she had been some little angel, sent into the rudest 
paths of this rude, material world, to compassionate, 
i comfort and brighten the lives of all around her. 

She was so sensitive and sympathetic, that even be- 
fore she could utter her feelings in words she betrayed 
them by signs. 

If she saw a cloud of sadness on the careworn brow 
of her father, or her mother, her little, rosy lips would 
quiver with grief, and her tender blue eyes fill with 
tears. 

When she was older and stronger she would climb to 
her weary, anxious father’s knee and kiss and pat and 
soothe him into rest and smiles. 

When she had learned to talk a few broken words she 
would come to her worried and fretted mother, caress 
her softly and say : 

“ Don’t ky. I love oo. I do love oo as if she knew 
that love was the panacea for all the pains of life. 

Her love was very practical, too. It had “ a body in 
it ” — the body of usefulness. When she was scarcely 
two years old, and could just toddle about the house, 


Em. 


215 


she tried her brave little best to help others in their 
work. 

Did she see her father about to light a fire in the 
kitchen stove, she would instantly trot off to the wood- 
box in the corner and bring paper, chips, and even 
sticks of wood that tasked all her baby strength to drag 
them along ; and so, with several journeys to and fro, 
she would have all the fuel on the hearth by the time 
the stove was cleaned out to receive it. 

Did her mother, while over the wash-tub, drop the 
slippery soap so that it slid away on the floor out of her 
reach, the eager child would immediately dart after it, 
catch it and bring it back with glee. 

Did her eldest sister let fall an apple or a potato while 
paring them for dinner, the watchful baby would fly 
after the rolling fugitive as fast as her little limbs could 
carry her, and capture it and fetch it back in triumph. 

Small services these, for at that time Em. was a very 
“ small, little, wee woman ” indeed ; but “ straws show 
which way the winds blow,” and these trifles indicated 
the germinating love, thoughtfulness, and helpfulness 
in the little being’s soul. 

j This affection and consideration for others, this desire 
|to help them and delight to please them, showed itself 
jin every act and aspect of the child’s life. 

Why, if any customer of the laundress, pleased with 
the little one’s beauty, gave her a piece of cake or 
candy, she instantly ran to give it to some one else ; and, 
if any others would take it, she would stand before 
them, with her hands clasped behind her, and watch 
them eat it, with her face perfectly radiant with frank 
joy — the joy in their supposed enjoyment. Thus, from 
[earliest childhood Em.’s greatest delight was in de- 
lighting others. 

Now, if any should doubt that such an angel- child 


“ Em. 


216 


ever lived, let me tell them that we ourselves had a lit- 
tle seraph with a heart like Em.’s, but that, as might 
have been expected, she went to heaven at two years 
old. From her we learned how angelic a child might 
be. But this is a digression. To return to Em. 

She was ambitious and progressive — very anxious 
to do bigger things than she was able to do. 

If any task was assigned to any of the elder children, 
she would run and hold up eager hands, exclaiming : 

“Me ! me ! me ! me do it !” 

One day old Ann Whitlock, who passed most of her 
leisure time sitting in Susan Palmer’s kitchen and knit- 
ting men’s socks for sale, called Nanny, the eldest girl, 
to hold a hank of yarn while she wound it. 

Nan, who was washing the breakfast dishes, did not 
come at once, but little Em., who was playing with her 
rag baby on the floor, started up and ran to the old 
woman with outstretched, eager hands, as usual, exclaim- 
ing : 

“ Me ! me ! me ! Lemme !” 

“ You darling, I don’t deserve as you should help me !’’ 
said the nurse ; but, to gratify the child, she put the 
hank of yarn on her hands. 

Em. held it so well and so patiently until it was all 
wound off, that after that day she was permitted to hold 
all the skeins of yarn for winding. 

But her greatest pleasure was to be trusted with feed- 
ing the chickens in the back-yard, or bringing in the 
new-laid eggs from the hens’ nests in the shed at the 
back of the kitchen. 

About this time, the bountiful mother presented the 
family with another baby — a bouncing, black-eyed boy, 
who, being the youngest, of course put Em.’s little nose 
out of joint. 

But the child’s generous spirit knew no such thing as 


Em. 


217 


envy. The helpness, new-born baby touched her ten- 
derest sympathies, stirred the motherly love latent in the 
little maiden’s soul. She wanted to hold the baby, to 
carry it, to nurse it, to wait upon it. She wished every- 
body to love it and serve it from morning until night. 
She brought her rag dolls, her wooden dogs and horses, 
her tin whistles and all her other treasures, and was 
disappointed and distressed that the baby could neither 
understand nor appreciate them. 

And it may as well be said of her now as later, that 
this careful little maiden came to consider herself the 
responsible mother of this baby and all the younger 
babies that came afterwards to the large family. 

But Em., in the course of her progress, developed 
another trait of character, scarcely in keeping with her 
rough surroundings — “ In that state of life into which it 
had pleased Providence to call her.” This was a deli- 
cate and dainty sense of purity and cleanliness that 
could not endure spot or blemish upon her dress or per- 
son. If any such fell upon her, she would pucker up 
her little lips and look up with an expression of distress 
that soon broke into tears if she and her grievance were 
not speedily re-dressed. 

“ I can’t make out that child,” would Susan Palmer 
often remark to her husband. “ I can’t, indeed. She 
ain’t nothing like the other children. Why, the dirtier 
they are the better they like it.” 

“ That’s the way with all the children as ever I see,” 
answered John ; “ the dirtier they are the free-an’-easier 
they feel, and, in course, the happier.” 

“ But that ain’t the way with Em. She’s so nice she 
hardly ever siles her close at all ; but if a spot, or speck 
of mellasses, or gravy, or anything else for that matter, 
happens to fall on her clean ap’on, you bet she is per- 
fectly miser’ble until I put a fresh one on her, and not 


2 I 8 


“ Em. 


only ap’ons, but plates and everything else. Why, law ! 
you saw yourself at breakfast this very morning how 
her saucer happened to have some streaks of syrup on 
it, and how she pouted and pouted at the saucer until 
Nan had to take it away and give her another one. 
Such a child ! And she not five years old yet !” 

“ ‘Sich is life,’ ” said John, at random ; for when he 
could find nothing else to say, then , in season or out of 
season, he said that. And it was that which gained for 
John Palmer the reputation, in the lane, of being a 
philosopher — so cheaply, sometimes, is fame won. 

“ Now, wouldn’t anybody think my Em. was a lady 
born, Mrs. Whitlock ?” inquired Susan Palmer one 
morning, appealing to her lodger. ‘‘Wouldn’t they 
think she was a little princess, a’most, to see her dainty 
little ways ?” 

“ Oome !” moaned the conscious nurse. “ I only wish 
we could bring her up as sich !” 

“ Well, then, I don’t — much as I love her ! Let’s 
bring up the gal in the way she should go ; to be a good 
: and useful woman in that state of life into which it has 
pleased Providence to call her,” said John, who had 
just come in from his work. 

“That’s what I say ; for no good never come of no 
j other course. I shall just bring Em. up as I bring the 
| others up, to wash, iron, cook and clean house. Then 
she needn't never be afeared not to be able to yearn her 
own living,” added Mrs. Palmer. 

“ Oome !” groaned Mrs. Whitlock. “ And not give 
the poor child no edication at all ?” 

“ Why, that's edication, and the very best of edication, 
too ! But, in course, as soon as she is old enough, I 
shall send her to the Sunday School to larn to read her 
Bible, same as the other children. But if you think, 
Ann Whitlock, as because my Em. is different from all 


my other childun, as I am a gwine to make any differ- 
ence between her and the other childun, you never was 
more mistook in your life, ma’am. And if you s’pose 
because my Em. is the beauty of the family and the 
flower of the flock, and all that, I am going to bring 
her upas a lady, even s’posin’ me and John was able so 
to do, you are out o’ your reckoning ! I love my Em. 
too much to want to do her sich a crying wrong ! It is 
a great snare of the devil, let me tell you, for a poor 
young girl to be fetched up as a lady, and has been the 
ruination of a many !” 

“ Well,” said Ann Whitlock stoutly, “ I can tell you 
this : whether you bring her up as a lady or not, she is 
a lady every inch of her ! and she will be a lady — 
there !” 

“ She’s an honest, poor man’s child and shall be 
brought up as sich ! I shall fetch her up to yearn her 
living honestly, and the more disrelish she shows for 
hard work the more I’ll put her to it : for her good, too ! 
So there now !” persisted Susan Palmer. 

“ Sich is life,” said the philosophic John. 

But Em., as she grew out of infancy into childhood, 
evinced no disinclination for hard work. On the con- 
trary, her love of others, and her desire to serve them, 
led her anxiously to engage in labor beyond her skill or 
strength. 

Yet she did everything she could do so neatly. 

“ I never see a child or ’oman wash dishes so well, and 
make so little slop, or sweep a floor so clean, and raise 
so little dust, as my Em.,” said Mrs. Palmer, when the 
helpful little maiden was about eight years old. 

“ I’d sooner have her fill my pipe than any on you, 
’cause she always smooths it off so neat at the top, and 
spills not a bit of ’bacca,” added John. 

“ That’s because she has got such fine, little fingers. 


220 


“ Em. 


Ah ! if she could only be edicated as a lady,” sighed 
Mrs. Whitlock. 

“ But she can’t, no how in the world, and that’s all 
about it. She have got to work for her own living, and 
she’ll have to larn how to do it. Would you ruin my 
poor gal by raising of her as a lady, Mrs. Whitlock ? 
Hows’ever, I don’t say as I won’t send her to the new 
free school to larn to read and write, soon as ever I take 
Jenny away. And I do hope that will please you, Ann 
Whitlock, and be satisfactory.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE HOME ANGEL. 

Thus from within and from without 
She grew, a flower of mind and eye ; 

’Twas love that circled her about, 

And love that made her quick reply. 

Sterling. 

Meanwhile Susan Palmer, the busy and prolific 
mother, had been diligently increasing her family, until, 
when Em. was ten years of age, there were as many 
children younger as there were older than herself. 

Thus stood the family roll : 

Jack, a tall, manly youth of eighteen, enlisted in the 
marine corps then stationed at the Navy Yard. 

Jim, a strapping boy of sixteen, apprenticed to a car- 
penter, in the neighborhood. 

Nanny, a pretty brunette of fourteen, out at service 
as nursemaid to Mrs. Dr. Willet’s children. 


The Home Angel. 


22 I 


Jenny, a merry gypsy of twelve, going to the new 
public school. 

Em., a bright little woman of ten, the willing Cinder- 
ella of the family, staying at home to help her mother, 
and to take care of the younger children. These 
younger ones were : 

Tom, aged eight, whom the little mother called her 
eldest child, because he was two years younger and the 
first to come after her. 

Ned, six, the companion of Tom. 

Nell, four, and her playmate. 

May, two. 

While Susan Palmer washed and ironed, and brought 
in half the income of the family, the little motherly 
maiden, Em., took care of all those younger children, 
making and mending their clothes and keeping them 
clean and neat. 

As for herself, she was always a model of dainty and 
delicate freshness and purity in person and dress. 
She was the only blonde in the family, and her colors 
were blue and white, and they harmonized perfectly 
with her fair complexion, blue eyes and light hair. She 
was called the “little beauty ” of the lane, and well she 
deserved the name, but better still she might have 
merited the title “ little benefactress ” of the lane, for 
such she was. 

Her love and services were not confined to her 
father’s house and famity, but extended to all their 
'neighbors, whom the little maiden helped as far as 
they had need and she had power. 

Especially she looked after the neglected children of 
that poor neighborhood, whose destitution appealed to 
her tenderest sympathies ; and often she would bring 
them in, and wash and comb and feed them. Yes, and 
she would have taken off their soiled and sickening 


222 


“ Em. 


rags and clothed them in clean and whole raiment, if 
she had possessed the means of doing so. 

This child never coveted money to spend on herself ; 
indeed, her “ acquisiteness ” was so small that she never 
acquired even the childish treasures that the poorest 
children accumulate. If a toy or a picture-book was 
given her by any visitor or customer of the laundress, 
she would be very grateful for it as a mark of kindness ; 
but it would quickly pass into the possession of some 
one of the younger children who wished for it ; but she 
took such delight in giving, that she got more enjoy- 
ment out of her transient and vanishing possessions 
than any one ever did out of heaped-up and hoarded 
treasures. 

Em. had nothing — nothing in the world, except her 
Jmeager supply of necessary clothing of the very cheap- 
est material — two changes of white cotton under-clo- 
thing, two blue calico frocks, two white aprons, two 
pairs of white hose, a white cambric sun-bonnet, and a 
pair of leather shoes, a tiny steel thimble and a tooth- 
brush. There ! that was the sum total of Em.’s per- 
sonal property — not worth more than three dollars in all. 
Comb and hair-brush she had only in common with the 
other chiidren, but it was her business to keep them 
very clean and nice. Scissors, needles and thread she 
had only in partnership with her mother and Jenny; 
but it was her care to keep the old family work-basket 
in order. No tangled thread orwisped cord, or knotted 
tape, or scattered buttons were to be found there ; each 
article was in its separate little paper box, or calico 
bag. 

Poor as the home of the laborer and the laundress was, 
everything was neat, clean and orderly, through the 
ministrations of the little household spirit. 

But the lane and the poorer children in the lane ! 


The Home Angel ’ 


223 


They were a burden and a sorrow to Em.’s large, lov- 
ing heart. 

Laundry Lane was far from being a respectable 
neighborhood. Indeed, John Palmer’s family was the 
only really decent one in it. There were thirteen houses ; 
six on John Palmer’s side and seven on the other. There 
was no uniformity about these houses. Some were of 
one story and some of two ; some of red brick and some 
of whitewashed wood, yet all with the exception of John 
Palmer’s were in a greater or less degree of dirt and de- 
lapidation, and all opened directly upon the reeking 
lane, with the gutter running down the middle, which 
was the receptacle of all the soap-suds from all the wash- 
tubs in the place. 

The air of the lane was always unsavory with fetid 
slops, and noisy with brawling voices. 

The inhabitants, always excepting the Palmer’s, were 
a wretched set of creatures — worthless men, who worked 
until they got a little money, and then drank until they 
got into the station-house, or the county jail, for rioting 
or wife beating, or some other peculiar pastime ; hope- 
less women, who washed and scolded, or idled and wept, 
who were often starved and beaten, and sometimes half 
killed and sent to the hospital ; and children ! ah, chil- 
dren ! ragged, dirty, famished and utterly neglected ! 
oftener on the filthy side- walk than in the house, and 
oftener in the reeking gutter than anywhere else ! 

It was the condition of these helpless little sufferers 
for the sins of others that weighed so heavily on the 
tender heart of our motherly little maid. When she had 
done all she could for any particular little waif, and 
could do no more, she would occasionally appeal to her 
mother — something in this way : 

“ Oh, mother ! Poor Billy vSmith !” 

“ What now ?” would Susan say, lifting her head from 


554 


“ Em. 


the wash-tub, and wiping the frothy suds from her strong, 
red arms. 

“ He is such a pitiful sight, dear mother ! He says 
his daddy’s in the station-house — ” 

“ Serve him right. I hope they’ll keep him there !” 

“ And his mamma’s in bed — ” 

“ Drunk, as usual, I suppose — ” 

“ But it isn’t Billy’s fault, dear mother. He’s only 
five year’s old, you know.” 

“ Well, what’s to be done about him ? I know you 
have washed and combed and stuffed him. I know 
that without your telling me ! Now what else do you 
want 

“ Dear mother, if you would only let me put one of 
Ned’s suits on him and keep him here until — ” 

“ Ned’s got only but two suits in the world.” 

“Yes, mother, and he can only wear one at a time ; 
the other one is hanging up idle on a peg, doing no- 
body any good.” 

“ But, gracious goodness, gal ! would you have me to 
give it away, when Ned will want it to change with ? ” 

“ No, mother, no, indeed. I only want you please 
to let me put one of Ned’s suits on poor Billy, and let 
him stay here this afternoon until I can wash and mend 
his poor little clothes. He won’t hurt Ned’s suit, dear 
mother, I have scrubbed him so clean.” 

“ Oome ! And why should I do all that, I wonder ? ” 

“ Oh, dear mother, because our Saviour says ‘ Inas- 
much as ye have done it to the least of these ye have 
done it unto me.’ ” 

“ Have your way, Em. ! ” said Susan Palmer, who, to 
tell the truth, was just as kind-hearted as her little 
daughter. 

And Em. spent a happy afternoon in washing and 


The Home Angel. 


225 . 


mending the neglected child’s clothes and in dressing 
him neatly in them. 

But, ah, these cases were always turning up, and the 
child’s individual efforts to ameliorate the condition of 
the children, and stem the tide of vice, poverty and 
misery in the lane, were almost as those of the fabulous 
old woman who endeavored to sweep back an inunda- 
tion with a broom ! 

“ Oh, mother,” she said one day, after she had washed, 
combed and fed a famished little girl, and let her go 
because she could do no more for her — “ oh, dear 
mother, how I wish I was rich ! Then I would take all 
these little children out of the street, and clean and 
clothe them, and put them in a good house with a plenty 
to eat and drink, and a plenty of books to learn, and 
work to do, and toys to play with. Oh, how I do wish 
I was rich ! ” breathed Em., with a sigh that was an 
earnest aspiration. 

“ Don’t you wish no such thing as that, Em. ! Riches 
is a snare, and power a temptation. You pray for the 
grace of the Lord, Em. ! That’s enough for you ! You 
mightn’t do half the good with your riches as you does 
with your poverty. Remember the widow’s mite.” 

“ Oh, yes, I should, mother dear, and oh ! I do wish 
our Heavenly Father would make me rich for the poor 
children’s sake. I would try to make a good use of 
riches ! ” earnestly answered Em. 

“ And sure I know you would, honey ! ” put in Ann 
Whitlock. “ Sure, if you have been faithful over few 
things, wouldn’t you be faithfuller over many ? And 
don’t you go for to be a disincouraging of her, Susan 
Palmer. You don’t know what you are a doin’ of ! 
She may be rich one of these days ! Who knows what 
may turn up ? 1 don’t.” 

“ Well, / do ! I know no riches ain’t going to turn 


226 


“ Em. 


up honest for her ; and she wouldn’t want ’em ^honest 
I’ll say that for any gal of mine / So I just wish you 
wouldn’t be putting any sich nonsense in her head, Ann 
Whitlock !” 

“Well, we shall see what we shall see, Susan Palmer! 
I tell you that gal is born to good luck.” 

“Why, law, Ann Whitlock, you interfere as much 
about that gal, and take her part as much as if she was 
your darter ! But there, you ain’t got any childun of 
your own, poor thing, and besides you saved her life 
when she was a baby, and so I s’pose as it is all natural 
enough, and, I am sure, I should be the very last one to 
blame you,” concluded the laundress kindly. 

“ Ooome,” sighed the ex-nurse. 

Up to the age of twelve, Em. could not be spared from 
household work to attend any but the Sabbath-school, 
and there she could learn to read fluently — not to write 
or to cipher. She was very anxious to improve in these 
respects, and often tried to copy the letters from Jane’s 
writing-book, or puzzle out the figures on Tom’s 
slate. Yet she never thought of complaining that her 
education was neglected. 

At length, however, honest John Palmer interfered. 

“ Susan, woman, why don’t you send Em. to a day- 
school ? Here she is going on thirteen years old, and 
hasn’t been anywhere but to the Sunday-school yet, and 
all the children were sent to a day-school as soon as they 
were seven years old ! How is it you don’t send Em ?” 

“ Why, law, John, I’m older than I was when the first 
childun was little, and the family is larger and the work 
is harder ; and Em. she is my right hand. I couldn’t 
get along with all these little children, and the house- 
work, and the cooking, and mending, and laundry work 
and all, if it was to save my life, without Em. !” replied 
the mother. 


The Home Angel. 


227 


“ But look a here ! There’s Jenny, she’s been going to 
school ever since she was seven years old, and she is 
fourteen now. She’s had schooling enough ! Take her 
away to help you with the housework, and send Em. in 
her place.” 

“ Law, John, how you talk ! You don’t know noth- 
ing about it. Mind your own work, good man, and 16t 
me mind mine.” 

“ So I will ; but you must take Jenny home now, and 
send Em. in her place to school.” 

“ Goodness gracious, John, I’m a going to take Jenny 
from school as soon as the August holidays comes ; but 
I shall have to send her out to service. Mrs. Dr. Willet 
wants another under-housemaid, and she says she will 
wait until the first of the month for Jenny, so as to 
be sure of getting a good, honest, girl. And as Ann is 
already at service there, you know it will be so good to 
have Jenny in the same place. And it will be a steady 
home for both of them for years.” 

“ Well, wife, you may fix everything else as you like, 
but one thing is certain, Em. has got to go to a day- 
school on the first of September. It will not do ; now I 
put it to you, my dear, will it do ? will it be fair to let 
our brightest child grow up a dunce ?” 

“ Em. wouldn’t grow up a dunce, not if she never 
saw the inside of a school. But, after all, you are right, 
John. Em. must be sent to school ! Lor ! I wasn’t 
thinking how time was passing and how fast she is 
growing up. Dear me, yes ! she must go to school in 
September, and I must let Mrs. Willet know that she 
will have to look out for another girl.” 

Accordingly, at the commencement of the fall term, 
Em. was entered at the same free school where all her 
elder brothers and sisters had received their educa- 
tion. 



CHAPTER XXII. 

A NEW PAGE. 

A vague unrest 

And a nameless longing filled her breast — 

A wish that she scarcely dared to own, 

For something better than she had known. 

Whittier. 

That first Monday in September on which Em. 
entered the public school, formed a turning-point in her 
life. 

The teacher of the girls’ department was a widow of 
the name of Templeton, a lovely and accomplished 
woman, whom bitter reverses of fortune had reduced 
to the necessity of earning her own and her child’s 
living by teaching In the public school — for she had a 
daughter of twelve, who was a pupil in her own 
school. 

Mrs. Templeton saw in Em. — what any stranger of 
even less fine discernment might easily have seen — a 
being of a more refined intellectual and spiritual organ- 
ization than is often found in any class of society. 

She examined the girl for classification, and finding 
that she could spell accurately and read admirably, she 
set her down at once to the study of penmanship, arith- 
metic and geography. 

[228] 


And oh ! what a new life now opened before the 
child’s delighted mind ! 

The map of the world alone, with its two hemi- 
spheres, its oceans and its continents, its zones and its 
north and south poles, was- an object of wonder, curi- 
osity and rapture. She fed upon her first lessons with 
an appetite that digested and assimilated every mor- 
sel ! 

Ah ! the pleasant changes in the divisions of land ! 
The delightful varieties in the divisions of water ! 
The sublimity of the oceans and the mountains. The 
beauty of the lakes and of the islands ! Heaven ! what 
rapture it was to be borne out of narrow, fetid, stifling, 
Laundry Lane into a great, broad, magnificent world 
like this ! for her eyes opened the door to imagination, 
and, from studying the map of the world on a common 
school atlas, Em.’s spirit revelled in vast space. 

Her memory was as retentive as her imagination was 
vivid. 

These were the strong pinions that bore her swiftly 
onward in her intellectual flight. So rapid was her pro- 
gress that in one term she had so far outstripped her 
class as to be promoted to a higher one, where history 
was added to the list of her studies. 

But Em. did not much enjoy the reading of history. 

“ It is almost all about fierce and cruel warfare, and 
the efforts of one king or one nation to destroy another. 
And the most ruthless destroyer was always the greatest 
hero ! No, I don’t enjoy history. I only read it with a 
painful curiosity,” she said to her teacher. 

“ Emolyn, you are a very unique little being. I 
hardly know what to make of you,” observed the lady. 

“ But, madam, does it not seem to you a sorrow and a 
shame that this sublime and beautiful earth, with its 
magnificent oceans and mountains, its lovely islands 


230 


“ Em. 


and lakes, should be profaned by cruel and terrible 
wars, all arising out of the monstrous selfishness of 
man ? Oh, no, Mrs. Templeton, I take no pleasurable, 
only a painful interest in history. The earth is a de- 
lightful study, but man is a distressing one. Ah ! I 
begin to understand now why the Lord had to come 
down from heaven to save them !” 

Mrs. Templeton became more interested in her 
thoughtful young pupil, and offered to lend her books 
not to be found in the school collection, and invited Em. 
to visit her at her own house, and even encouraged an 
intimacy between Em. and her own young daughter, 
Hermia. 

This was a very unusual mark of consideration on the 
part of the lady, for Em. was the child of a poor laborer 
and laundress, and Miss Templeton was the orphan 
daughter of a late cabinet minister, and the grand- 
daughter of a general in the army. But Mrs. Temple- 
ton had the rare insight and rarer sense of justice 
to value persons according to their intrinsic worth 
rather than external circumstances. 

“ Among all Hermia’s young companions I know not 
one whom I would so willingly welcome for her most 
intimate friend as this poor child of toil,” said Mrs. 
Templeton to the Rev. Mr. Whittington, the Rector of 
Christ’s Church, where herself and daughter attended 
Divineservice. 

“ I know the child. She has been a pupil in our 
Sunday-school for several years, as her parents have 
been members of our church. She is a child of rare 
intellectual and spiritual gifts,” was the approving reply 
of the minister. 

Hermia Templeton was in many respects a contrast 
to Emolyn Palmer. They were both about the same 
age, but Em. was the fairest of blondes, with a clear 


pink and white complexion, light blue eyes and golden 
curls, with delicate featui'es, a slender figure and tiny 
hands and feet. Hermia was well-grown for her age — 
a tall brunette, with a pale, olive complexion, large, 
dark-brown eyes and dark-brown hair, plainly banded 
and straight as an Indian’s. Em. was humble, sensi- 
tive, sympathetic, spirituelle, sprightly and enthusiastic. 
Hermia was proud, grave, thoughtful, earnest and 
affectionate, and she looked full two years older than 
her little friend. 

Mrs. Templeton lived in a pretty, little brown cottage 
that stood in a flower-garden full of fragrant roses and 
vines, and that had a lovely little parlor with a bay- 
window, and was upholstered in blue, and opened into 
a tiny library full of choice books. It had also cosy, 
little white- draped bedrooms, and altogether looked 
like a charming toy palace. 

Em. thought it as beautiful as fairyland, and so it was 
in comparison with Laundry Lane. 

But Em. did not yield to the temptation of visiting 
Violet Villa. Though she loved to be there, she knew 
that her little brothers and sisters needed her at home, 
and that all her time out of school was due to them. 

But, oh, the contrast was painful between the fragrant 
garden around Violet Villa and the fetid lane before 
her own poor dwelling-house. 

The dirt, the fetor, the discord and noise of the lane 
was a source of great discomfort to the Palmer family, 
and of much distress to Em. 

John Palmer would have moved away to a more 
wholesome neighborhood but for his cat-like love of 
the house he was used to. 

He often said that that was the home to which he 
had brought his wife when they were first married ; 
that all their children had been born there except Em., 


232 


Em. 


who, poor little thing, had been born in a hospital ; that 
some of his children had died there ; that all the joys 
and sorrows of his life had come to him there, and final- 
ly there he looked to live and die. He was an oyster 
and his house was his shell, from which if he was shucked 
he should perish. 

Poor John Palmer ! The time was destined to come 
when he was in danger of being an oyster roasted in 
the shell. But let us not anticipate. 

John Palmer was the only permanent tenant in Laun- 
dry Lane. All the others were always moving in or 
moving out. 

There was one little, tiny, red brick hut at the end of 
the lane, on the same side with John Palmer’s cottage — 
that is to say, the red hut was at the entrance of the 
lane, and John Palmer’s place at the opposite extremity. 
This hut was very dilapidated, damp and unwholesome, 
and changed occupants oftener than any other house in 
the lane. 

One day Em. coming in from school, said : 

“ Mother, there is an old colored woman moved into 
the red hut now. I saw her sitting at the door knitting. 
She looks very old and poor, and she asked me if I knew 
where she could get socks and stockings to foot, and 
she said she could do them cheap. Now, you know we 
ought to help her to get work, ought we not, mother ? 
And so, you will speak to the ladies you wash for, 
mother ? Some of them might be really glad to find a 
person who could foot stockings — there are so few knit- 
ters left now-a-days.” 

“ Lor, Em. Now you have got an old colored woman ! 
Who will you take under your wing next ? Well, after 
tea, you and I will go down the lane and look at some 
of the old creetur’s knitting, and, if it is well done, I’ll 
recommend her. Now hurry and get your father’s sup- 


A New Page . 


2 33 


per ready right away ! I must put down all these 
clothes in soak to be washed out to-morrow morning.” 

The busy little maiden put away her books, hung up 
her bonnet, and began to prepare the evening meal. 

She set the table, fried the bacon, toasted the bread 
and made the tea, so that by the time John’s step was 
heard upon the threshold, all was ready for him to sit 
down and eat. 

After supper Susan Palmer threw a shawl over her 
head, and calling Em. to accompany her, left the house 
in charge of John, and walked down the lane to look 
after her daughter’s new protegee. 

When they came to the little red hut, they found the 
old black woman sitting in the door smoking her pipe. 

On seeing her, Mrs. Palmer burst into an exclamation 
of surprise, ejaculating : 

“ The Lord deliver us, Aunt Monica ! Is this you ?'* 

“ Yes, honey ! Yes, chile ! Dis is me, ole Aunt Mon- 
ica, what used to b’long to ole Marse Captain Wynde- 
worth, honey ! But who is you ? ’Pears like you know 
me, but I don’t ’member of you, chile 1” said the old 
woman, raising her blear eyes and peering through the 
deepening twilight into the face of the visitor. 

“ Don’t you know Susan Palmer, Aunt Monica ? Su- 
san Palmer, as your dear good young lady, Miss Emolyn, 
used to be so kind to ? Sure you remember me now !” 

“Oh! Ay, ay ! Yes, yes! Well, well ! To be sure I 
do ! And I’m mighty glad to see you, too ! And is this 
here your darter ? Fine gal she is ! Took the trouble to 
stop and speak to me ; the only one as has spoke to me, 
or took notice of me since here I’ve been ! She’s your 
darter, honey ?” 

“ Yes, Aunty, she is my third daughter — the one that 
was born in the hospital, you know, about the time poor 
dear Miss Emolyn was in her trouble.” 


234 


“ Em. 


“ Ay, ay ! I ’member well ! Talking ’bout that, how 
much she is like Miss Emolyn, in her looks and in her 
ways too. It struck me all of a heap, when I seen her 
this arternoon, and she come and stopped and spoke to 
me so sweet, and asked me how I did and when I moved 
here, and if I had any friends ! Deed did she ! I 
thought I was a dreaming ! Clar to goodness, I had to 
stop and pinch myself to see if I was awake ! For 
’peared to me like Miss Emolyn, jist as I had knowed 
her, as a growing gal, was standing right afore me, or 
else as I was a dreaming of a dream about her.” 

“ She is the image of Miss Wyndeworth, but, Lor’, 
when you come to know all about it you won’t won- 
der ! Why, for months before that gal was born, Miss 
Emolyn was never out of my mind, day nor night ; con- 
sequence is, she is the living image of Miss Wyndeworth, 
and though I am her mother, I must say it, and I am 
thankful I can say it. She has her sweet ways, as well 
as her sweet looks.” 

“ Ay ! ay ! I’ll warrant you she has. But come in, 
honey! Come in, chillun, and set down. The jew’s a 
falling, and you might get cold. ’Sides which, this gut- 
ter here smells awful — ’nough to give a body the tyefoot 
fever.” 

So saying, Aunt Monica hobbled to her feet and stood 
aside to let her visitors pass into the hut, which they did. 

It was a poor place, with a brick floor, a rude bed- 
stead, a little, oak table, one low, chip-bottomed chair, 
two three-legged stools, some cups and saucers ranged 
on the mantelpiece, a few cooking utensils hung 
within the jambs, and a low, smouldering fire in the 
chimney. 

Aunt Monica gave Mrs. Palmer the seat of honor — 
the flag-bottomed chair — and placed a three-legged 


A New Page. 


235 


stool for Em. Then she herself sat down and waited 
respectfully to be addressed. 

“ Well, now then, Aunty, let us talk about old times 
and tell each other all that has happened to us since we 
last met ! I haven’t got much to tell myself. Me and 
John have lived in the self-same house, in the self-same 
lane, ever since : only he had steady work, and so had I, 
so that we have prospered in our humble way. And we 
have had four children since Em. was born, two fine 
boys, and two fine girls. We have nine living children, 
Aunty !” 

“ Bless de Lord for all his mercies !” ejaculated Aunt 
Monica. 

“ Now, tell me about yourself, Aunty ? Where have 
you been all these many years ? — Why, bless my heart, 
how long it has been ! Em. was a baby when you went 
away, and now she is almost a young woman ! Where 
have you been, Aunty, and what have you been doing ?” 

“ Bless your soul, honey, I done been trapesing up 
and down the world, after Miss Melwiny Warde ! You 
’member when she bruk up housekeeping at the Pint ?” 

“ Yes, of course I do.” 

“ Well, honey, she hired out the men-servants, so she 
did, but she took me with her, for her own ’oman, to 
wait on her in her own room and to take care of her 
jewels and her laces and her dresses and her things, 
cause she knowed I was honest and she was always 
s’picious of strangers. So she took me long of her, 
honey. And we trapesed up and down the world 
together, sometimes in Washington, and sometimes in 
York, and sometimes in Orleans, and sometimes at this 
springs and sometimes at that springs ! So about thir- 
teen or fourteen years we went up and down the world, 
and to and fro the world like the devil in the story of 
Job ; until this las’ year, chile. I broke right down and 


236 


Em. 


wasn’t able to travel so much, and got used up with 
rheumatism so often that, at last, when Miss Melwiny 
come to the city ’bout a mont’ ago, she up and give me 
my free papers — to ’vent the expense o’ ’viding for me, I 
do b’lieve ! But, Lord, chile, I was that glad to be shet of 
her, I didn’t care if I starved. So, chile, you see, dough 
I did love my dear ole marster, Captain Wyndeworth, 
with all my heart, I hadn’t no use for Miss Melwiny ! I 
hadn’t indeed ! So I ’cepted my free papers thankful 
enough, and then, as I did have about fifty dollars hid 
away as I had saved from presents give me by the gen- 
tlemen as I used to cook sich nice oyster suppers for, in 
ole Marse Captain Wyndeworth’s time, I just come and 
rented this yer little house, and bought a handful o’ 
second-hand furnitur’ cheap, and setup for myself here. 
I got thirty-eight dollars left as a nest egg ; but that 
ain’t a-going to last forever, chile, ’less I add to it ! So 
if you could leave a little knitting or darning or mend- 
ing in my way, you’d be a doing of a kindness to a poor 
widow woman.” 

“ Certainly I will, Aunty ; and as you are a knitter, I 
think you will find a plenty of work and no opposition ; 
because, you see, there are hardly any knitters to be 
had now.” 

“ Bless you, honey, if you get me a plenty of knitting 
to do, you will make my fortin !” exclaimed the old 
woman. 

“And now, Aunty, we must bid you good-night. 
Come, Em., we must be going,” said Susan Palmer, 
rising. 

“ Good-night, chillun ! Thank you kindly, though I 
know it was all that gal’s doings, your coming to see 
me,” said Aunt Monica, as she followed her visitors to 
the door. 

“ Come, Em.,” said Susan Palmer, as they walked 


Em's Adventure. 


2 37 


down the lane. You must go to-morrow and speak a 
good word to Mrs. Willet and to Mrs. Templeton, too, 
for the poor old creature.” 

“ Yes, mother, I will go early to-morrow,” replied the 
girl. 

But “ to-morrow ” a strange adventure happened to 
Em., that was destined to influence her life and fortune. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

EM.’s ADVENTURE. 

She has a tear for pity, and a hand 

Open as day to melting charity ; 

Yet, notwithstanding, being incensed, she’s fire! 

Shakespeare. 

Em. was up by sunrise, helping her mother to get her 
father’s breakfast ready ; for John was at work at the 
arsenal, and had to leave home every morning early 
enough to be at his post by six o’clock. 

From six to six were the workingmen’s hours of 
labor in those hard days. 

“ Now you know what you have got to do, little 
woman, as soon as ever you have swallowed your break- 
fast,” said Susan Palmer to her busy little daughter, who- 
was springing back and forth from the cooking-stove to 
the table, setting the morning meal upon the board. 

“ Oh, yes, mother dear, I have got to go to Dr. Wil- 
let’s to try to get work for old Aunt Monica, before I 
go to school, so I must start early, so as to be in time,” 
cheerfully replied Em. 


238 


“ Em" 


“ Yes ; and you have got to do something else before 
you go to Dr. Willet’s even. You have got to take this 
bundle of clothes to the City Hotel, to a gentleman who 
is going away this forenoon, and must have them at 
once/' 

“ Very well, mother dear. I sha’n’t be long over my 
breakfast,” said the girl. 

“ Now, Susan Palmer, I really must interfere, whether 
you like it or not. I do think it a sin and a shame to 
send a pretty, innocent girl like Em. to carry clothes 
home to a gentleman in a hotel. I do !” said Ann Whit, 
lock, earnestly. 

“ Fiddle-de-de ! Em.’s a child !” answered Mrs. Pal- 
mer. 

“ Em. '11 be fifteen years old the first of next May ; 
and she is just at the very age when she ought not to be 
sent on no such errands. No good won’t never come of 
it. If you want them shirts took to the gentleman at the 
hotel, and you can't do it yourself, and haven’t got no- 
body else to send but only that young gal, why, I’ll take 
’em myself, sooner’n she should go ! I tell you ag’in, 
she’s just at the age when she oughtn’t to be sent on no 
sich errands. If she was younger, it wouldn’t matter ; 
nobody 'd hurt her ! If she was older, it wouldn’t mat- 
ter ; she’d know how to take care of herself ! But at 
her age ! I tell you, Susan Palmer, you’ll rue the day 
you ever risked your darter that way.” 

“Fiddlesticks ! Em.’s safe enough ! I don’t believe 
the world is full of roaring lions raging up and down 
and seeking whom they may devour. No, and even so, 
they wouldn’t hurt my harmless little maid, or even if 
they wanted too, Em. could take care of herself. 
Couldn't you lass ?” 

“Yes, mother ! I am not afraid !” 


Em.'s Adventure. 


239 


“ Very well ; I wash my hands of it ! that is all,” con- 
cluded Mrs. Whitlock. 

The breakfast was placed upon the table, and John 
Palmer was called in from the little back yard, where 
he had been profitably employed in cutting- and piling 
up wood for the use of the family during the day. 

As soon as breakfast was over, the patient laborer de- 
parted to his day’s work. 

Then Em. put on her bonnet and took the neatly 
done up parcel containing half a dozen clean shirts, and 
started with them, for the City Hotel. 

She had scarcely left the door, however, before she 
ran back, inquiring : 

“ Mother dear, whom must I take these shirts to ? 
You forgot to tell me the gentleman’s name.” 

“ Oh ! so I did! Commodore Bruce, Em.! a navy 
officer, honey ! Seems he’s stopping at the City Hotel ; 
but he is going to start for Virginia to-day. So be spry, 
my dear, or you may keep the old man waiting.” 

“ I’ll hurry, mother,” said Em., and she tripped brisk- 
ly down the lane towards the broad street leading to the 
avenue on which the City Hotel stood. 

As she passed the red hut she noticed old Aunt 
Monica sitting in the door. 

“ Be of good cheer, auntie,” she said. “ I shall be 
sure to bring you some work to-day.” 

“ Thanky, my good angel. I know you will, if you 
can,” gratefully replied the old woman. 

“ And I will, whether or no , by some means or other,” 
said the child to herself as she hurried on. 

It was a long way to the avenue ; but she walked 
fast, and soon reached the City Hotel, where she rang 
at the private entrance and inquired for Commodore 
Bruce. 


240 


“ Em. 


The porter called an usher, who showed her up to a 
chamber on the third floor, and rapped at the door. 

“ Come in,” said a voice from the room. 

“ It is a girl with a bundle, sir. Go in, miss,” said the 
waiter, opening the door and ushering in the humble 
visitor. 

Em. found herself in a large, handsomely-furnished 
bed-chamber, and standing before a tall, fine-looking, 
old gentleman of stately and dignified presence, with a 
grand head and a noble face, framed in with snow-white 
hair and beard. He was dressed in the uniform of a 
commodore in the navy, which became him well. 

“ I have brought your washing home, sir, and I hope 
that I am in good time,” said Em., with modest polite- 
ness. 

“You are in good time, my child, but you look tired 
and heated. I fear that you must have walked very 
fast,” said the commodore kindly. 

“I did walk fast, sir ; but it will not hurt me, thank 
you,” replied Em., slightly coloring to be noticed so 
much. 

“ But you are out of breath. Sit down and recover 
yourself. Have you had your breakfast ?” 

“Oh, yes, sir. Hours ago, thank you.” 

“ You are an early bird, then. But sit down and rest, 
when I tell you. Don’t be afraid. Sit down,” said the 
commodore, in the kind yet peremptory tone of one ac- 
customed to exercise a paternal sway over all with whom 
he came in contact. And he took the parcel from her 
hand, placed it on a table, and pushed a chair toward 
her. 

Em. instinctively obeyed and seated herself. 

The old commodore looked at her so wistfully that 
Em. cast down her eyes. 

Then the old man spoke to her as respectfully as if 


Em's Adventure . 


241 


she had been a little lady instead of a little laundress, 
and said : 

“ Excuse me, my dear, but I could not help looking at 
you, for you remind me so strongly of one I used to 
know long ago. Are you the child of Mrs. — Mrs. — I 
mean the good woman who did my washing, I have for- 
gotten her name ?” 

“ Palmer, sir.” 

“ Are you her daughter ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ What is your name, my dear ?” 

“ Em., sir.” 

“ Emma ? Emily ? Emmeline ? Which ?” 

“ Emolyn, sir.” 

“ Emolyn !” exclaimed the commodore, in surprise. 

“ Yes, sir,” answered Em., in embarrassment, caused 
by the old man's sudden exclamation. 

“ Lord bless my soul — what a name, and what a like- 
ness !” muttered Commodore Bruce in a low voice, as 
he threw himself into a chair and a short meditation. 

“ Who gave you that name ? — Oh ! I am questioning 
you like a church catechism ! Who called you Emolyn, 
my dear ? It is an unusual name. I never knew but 
one who bore it.” 

“ My mother named me Emolyn, sir, after a young 
angel lady who used to be so good to the poor that she 
never kept anything for herself. Her name was Emolyn 
Wyndeworth,” replied Em., regaining confidence in the 
kindly and paternal manner of the old sailor. 

“Emolyn Wyndeworth! Yes, and you are the very 
counterpart of Emolyn Wyndeworth, as I knew her in 
the last, sorrowful year of her life ; for I suppose she 
has passed away long ago ! I have not heard of her for 
nearly fifteen years. It is strange. You seem her very 
self in humble attire.” 


242 


“ Em. 


“ The likeness has been often noticed, sir, by those 
who remember that lady ; but my mother accounts for 
it by saying that Miss Wyndeworth was in her thoughts 
for months and months before I was born/’ said Em., 
innocently repeating Susan Palmer’s absurd argument. 

“Hum, ha, I don’t know. ‘More things in heaven 
and earth,’ and so forth. But, child, I am keeping you. 
Here is your mother’s money. God bless you ! And 
may you grow as like Emolyn Wyndeworth in spirit as 
you are in form !” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Em., in a low voice, as she took 
the laundress’s wages, arose, and left the room. 

The commodore walked thoughtfully up and down 
the floor, muttering to himself : 

“ Now, have I not acted like an old idiot, making such 
an ado over that washerwoman’s daughter, merely be- 
cause she bears the name of Emolyn and resembles 
Miss Wyndeworth ! Yet what a likeness ! Good Heaven! 
she seemed Emolyn Wyndeworth herself, standing be- 
fore me in plain clothes ! That poor child ! That poor 
Emolyn Wyndeworth ! That poor, motherless girl, too 
jnuch left to herself — left to drift down to destruction ! 
And my poor lost boy loved her so ! They were like 
Paul and Virginia. How he implored me to let him 
marry her, before he went to sea ! He a boy and she a 
Child ! And how touchingly he spoke of her desolate 
girlhood, and begged me to take care of her on that 
night before he left us — left us to go on that 
■fatal voyage ! I wish I had let him marry her 
young as they both were ; for I had my sus- 
picions, from what followed, that they ought to have 
been married before. Yes, yes, I wish I had consented 
to that marriage ! And I wish I had been kinder to the 
motherless girl, commended to my charge by my poor, 


Em's Adventure. 


243 


doomed boy ! Ah ! I am not free from reproach for all 
that has happened. We are too often responsible for 
the sins and sorrows of others, for which we blame and 
pity only them ! Well ! well ! they have both passed 
away from the earth, and perhaps have met in a happier 
land. I don’t know. And what has brought all this 
back to me with such painful vividness ! The accidental, 
but most wonderful, likeness of that washerwoman’s 
daughter to poor Emolyn Wyndeworth ! Tut ! tut ! all 
this is useless self-torture. I will ring for Terry to pack 
up, and then for Virgina and 1 The Breezes !’ ” 

So saying, the commodore rang for his servant, an 
old, superannuated sailor like himself, dear to him for the 
many voyages they had made, the many battles they 
had fought, the many storms they had encountered, and 
the many dangers they had escaped together, and who, 
for these reasons, now shared his old commander’s 
honorable retirement. 

Terry came in answer to his master’s summons. 

“ Secured our places in stage-coach, O’Connell ? ” 

“ Ay, ay, sir ! ” answered the veteran, carrying the 
back’ of his hand to his brow. 

“ Right ! Now go to work and pack up quicker than 
you ever did anything in your life before. We are off 
for ‘ The Breezes,’ with no time to lose.” 

“Ay, ay, sir ! ” responded the old tar, with another 
salute, as he set about his work. 

And he made such dispatch that within a half hour 
all was ready, and within an hour the commodore and 
his servant were seated in the stage-coach, on their way 
to Virginia. 

In the meantime Em. having left the hotel, hurried 
on towards the school -house, intending to call at Dr. 
Willet’s 011 her way, to try to engage work for old Aunt 
Monica. 


244 


“ Em. 


To gain time, Etn. took a short cut, by turning down 
into a narrow street leading from the avenue to the 
square on which the doctor’s house stood. 

She had scarcely turned the corner, when the terri- 
fied cries of a child, mingled with piteous pleadings in 
some foreign tongue, arrested her steps for a moment, 
and then hastened them ; for there, a few yards before 
her, she saw a rude and drunken brute cruelly beating 
a dark-eyed brown-complexioned little girl of not more 
than seven years old. 

Now, if there was one set of beings Em. loved more 
than all others, they were little children. And if there 
was another set of creatures she abhorred more than all 
the rest, they were cruel men. 

The brute’s blows were falling heavily , the child’s 
voice was wailing piteously. 

Em. did not stop to measure strength with the mon- 
ster, or to count the cost of the conflict. She dropped 
her school-books and rushed to the rescue. 

She caught the screaming child up in her strong 
young arms, and rushed with it to the opening of the 
narrow alley, and out upon the broad avenue, where 
there were plenty of people passing. 

So sudden had been her onset that the ruffian had 
not been prepared for it. Indeed, amazed by the 
audacity of Em.’s act, and muddled by strong drink, he 
stood stupefied for a moment, before he staggered after 
her in pursuit, cursing and swearing and yelling forth : 

“ Gimmy my darter, yer jade ! I’ll have ye arristed ! 
How dar’ ye ? Gimmy my darter, I say ! ” interlarding 
each sentence with a volley of oaths. 

But Emolyn, now on the corner of the avenue, placed 
her back against the wall of a house, and clasped the 
cowering child to her bosom. 

“ Gimmy my darter, yer ! or I’ll mash yer !” 


Ronald Bruce. 


245 


“ She is not your daughter. She is a foreign child, 
you wretch ! Stand off !” cried Em., straining the little 
girl to her breast with one arm, while she held the other 
out in repulsion of the monster. 

He reeled towards her and raised a club, which, if it 
had fallen, would have ended Em.’s story then and 
there. 

But the club was sent flying from his hand with a 
sharp blow, and he was laid sprawling on the sidewalk 
by another. 


« 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

RONALD BRUCE. 

A fine and manly brow, though sun and wind 
Have darkened it. L. E. Langdon. 

Heroic Em. looked up to see a handsome, dark-eyed 
young man, in the uniform of a lieutenant in the Navy, 
and with a stout stick in his hand, standing over the 
fallen foe. 

But the young man was not looking at her then ; he 
was signalling a policeman from the next corner. 

The officer came up. 

“ Take this drunken and murderous beast into cus- 
tody. He has just made an assault with intent to kill. 
Carry him before the peace officer of the ward. I will 
follow with these children and give my testimony,” said 
the lieutenant, as he spurned the brutal body with his 
boot, and turned to Em. and her trembling proUgie. 

“ What has been the matter here ? Why did that man 
assail you ?” he inquired. 


246 


“ Em: 


“ He was beating - this child cruelly. She is not his 
child, as you may see, sir. And even if she had been, he 
had no right to beat her so, and I should have inter- 
fered all the same. But she is a foreign child, as you 
hear, sir, if you speak to her,” replied Em. 

“ Why did the wretch beat you, little one ?” inquired 
the lieutenant, bending his kindly dark eyes down on the 
picturesque, little, foreign face turned up, half in grati- 
tude, half in fear, to his. 

His tone and look reassured the child, and she replied 
with an impetuous babble of broken music, that was 
quite unintelligible to Em., though perfectly plain to the 
young lieutenant. 

“ She is a little Italian. The man was trying to com- 
pel her to mount the stilts and learn to walk on them, 
for street exhibition, to make money. Every time she 
mounts on stilts she falls from them and hurts herself 
badly. She was afraid to get on them again, and was 
begging the man to have pity on her, when he beat her,” 
said the young lieutenant, in answer to Em.’s inquiring 
look. 

“ But what right had such a monster to tyrannize over 
her ? Has she no parents, no friends ?” indignantly 
inquired Em. 

“ I do not know. We have not time to question her 
further now. We must follow the policeman, who has 
gone off to the magistrate's office with the ruffian, for I 
intend to prosecute the brute and see this affair at an 
end. Come, little one.” 

And so saying, the young lieutenant took the little 
stranger by the hand and led her on. 

Then seeing Em. hesitate, he said : 

“ Come ! come, you must come with us. You were 
the party whom I saw assailed, and you must also give 
evidence of the assault upon the child.” 


Ronald Bruce. 


247 


Em. followed the young man without the least em- 
barrassment, for indeed he had scarcely looked at her. 

They soon overtook the policeman, who, with his 
stupefied and staggering prisoner, made but slow prog- 
ress down the avenue. 

Fortunately the magistrate’s office was not far off. 

The whole party soon reached and entered it. 

The policeman led his prisoner in, followed by the 
lieutenant leading the child, and by Em., who entered 
alone. 

There was no one in the room but the few officers in 
attendance. 

The morning’s batch of night prisoners from the sta- 
tion house had been disposed of hours before. The 
magistrate sat back in his arm-chair reading the day’s 
paper ; the clerk, perched upon a stool, whittled a stick, 
and two bailiffs lounged near the windows. 

The magistrate laid down his paper and took off his 
spectacles ; the clerk threw away his stick and shut up 
his penknife, and the two policemen took their feet off 
the seats of the chairs and stood at “ attention.” 

The policeman having the rough in custody took him 
immediately up to the magistrate’s table, saying : 

“ An old customer, your worship — Jake Duggan, liv- 
ing in Pig Alley.” 

“ What’s the charge besides drunkenness,” inquired 
the magistrate, bending his eyes severely on the old 
offender while he questioned the officer. 

“Here is the gentleman at whose complaint I took 
him in custody, your worship,” said the policeman, mak- 
ing way for the young lieutenant, who then came up to 
the table and said : 

“ My name is Ronald Bruce. I am a lieutenant in the 
United States Navy, now on leave of absence. I charge 
that man with making an assault upon this young girl 


248 


“ Em . 


with intent to kill. Swear me, and I will make my 
statement under oath.” 

The oath was administered by the clerk, and then the 
young lieutenant described the scene he had witnessed 
on the avenue, when he had arrived at the corner of Pig 
Alley in time to arrest the deadly blow aimed by the 
prisoner at the young girl before them. 

When Lieutenant Bruce had finished his testimony, 
Em. was called to give her evidence. 

She told them that her name was Emolyn Palmer, 
that she was the daughter of John Palmer, laborer, liv- 
ing in Laundry Lane, and then she described the scene 
she had witnessed in Pig Alley, where the brutal man 
had terribly beaten the little child whom she had sud- 
denly rescued from him by snatching her up and run- 
ning away to the avenue, where the man pursued them 
with threats and curses, but was prevented from hurting 
them by the timely intervention of the lieutenant. 

When Em. had finished her testimony, the poor, little 
Italian girl was brought forward. Her scant clothing 
hung in tatters on her emaciated person. Her abundant 
jet-black tresses clustered in uncombed mats about her 
dark, picturesque face, which would have been beauti- 
ful but for the look of wild sorrow in the large, dark 
eyes, and about the drooping corners of the full, red 
mouth. Her feet and legs were bare ; her arms and 
neck were covered with bruises. 

Being questioned as to her relations with the man 
who had so brutally beaten her, she replied with a vehe- 
ment babble of language incomprehensible to all her 
hearers, except to the young navy officer, who under- 
stood Italian, and volunteered to translate it. 

She then said her name was Valencia Piozzi; that her 
mother and father had come to this country two years 
before ; but both had died of cholera soon after their 


Ronald Bruce . 


249 


arrival; that Jake Duggan had promised her father to 
take care of her ; but that he sent her into the streets to 
sell matches and pins and to beg, and when she didn’t 
bring home any money he would beat her and send her 
out again, even if it was in the dead of night, and when 
she did bring in any money he would buy rum and get 
drunk, and get mad and beat her all the same. At last, 
she said, he wanted to make her learn to walk on stilts, 
to make money on the streets, but she could not learn ; 
she always fell off them and hurt herself badly. And 
this morning she begged him to spare her, but he was 
drunk, and he answered by beating her worse than 
ever. 

The marks upon the miserable child’s person attested 
the truth of her terrible statement. 

When the miscreant who had so brutally misused her 
was asked what he had to say for himself, he replied 
that the child was his own ; that her dying father had 
given her to him ; that he had more right to her than 
any one else ; that he stood in the place of a parent to 
her ; that he was teaching her how to get her own living; 
that he had a right to do that, and a right to correct her 
when she was disobedient, and no one had a right to pre- 
vent him, as that bold girl had done, when she snatched 
her up and ran away ; and that instead of himself being 
arrested, she ought to be prosecuted for violent abduc- 
tion, and she should be, too, if there were law and jus- 
tice in the land. 

The sitting magistrate thought there was law and jus- 
tice enough in this land to adjudicate this case, so he 
sentenced Mr. Duggan to the work-house for ninety 
days, and sent him off under the escort of two police- 
men. 

“ And now, what is to be done with this poor little 
waif !” inquired the young lieutenant, still holding the 


250 


“ Em. 


hand of the little Italian, who clung to him with her 
claw-like fingers, and gazed up at him with her wild 
eyes, as if in him lay all her hopes of mercy on this 
earth. 

“ Hum !” said the magistrate. I must send her to 
the work-house, too.” 

“ But what has she done to deserve it ?” inquired the 
young officer, in almost angry surprise. 

“ Nothing at all ; but there’s no other refuge for her. 
I shall send her to the pauper’s ward, of course, not to 
the criminals.” 

“ Oh, pray, do not send her to the work-house, at all, 
sir,” earnestly pleaded Em., who had been a silent, but 
deeply interested listener to the discussion. “ I will 
take her home with me, and I know my father and 
mother will take care of her sooner than let her go to 
the work-house.” 

The magistrate gazed at the earnest girl in surprise 
and perplexity, and when she had done speaking, he 
said : 

“ But people do not willingly take upon themselves 
the burden of other people’s children. Your parents 
will probably refuse to admit this vagrant child, and no 
one could blame them for doing so.” 

“ Oh, no, they will not, sir. I feel sure they will take 
her in. But if you doubt it, sir, it is so easy for you to 
send some one home with us to see how it will be, and 
then if my parents should refuse to take her in, as I am 
sure they will not — why, then your messenger can bring 
her back to you,” said Em. 

“ WelT, I could send a policeman with you, though I 
am convinced it would be on a fool’s errand !” observed 
the magistrate. 

“ Allow me, sir !” interrupted the young lieutenant, 
who had looked at Em. for the first time, and, having 


Ronald Bruce. 


251 


seen her, never withdrew his eyes from her while she 
spoke. “ Allow me ; I think this young lady speaks from 
conviction. I will take the little Italian child and go 
with Miss Palmer to her parents’ house, and if they 
should decline to take her in, I will bring her back to 
you, to be disposed of according to your pleasure. 
Have I your permission to do as I propose ?” 

“ Certainly, Lieutenant, and I also appreciate your 
kindness. I hope the good people may be inclined to 
take the poor little waif. Perhaps, also, the Commis- 
sioners of the Poor might allow them something for her 
support. I will see to that in the event of their taking 
her,” cordially replied the magistrate. 

“ Then I will bid you good-day ! Come, little one ! 
Come, Miss Palmer, show us the way, my good young 
lady,” said the lieutenant, taking the hand of the little 
Italian to lead her from the office. 

“ Miss Palmer !” “ Young lady !” Em. had never been 
called so in all her little life, and she was half abashed, 
half pleased at the compliment. 

She walked on a little in advance of the young lieu- 
tenant and the child, and the more embarrassed she 
felt the faster she walked, so that they could scarcely 
keep up with her. The young officer talked with the 
child in her own language, and occasionally addressed a 
few words to Em., always treating the laundress’s 
daughter with as much respect as he would have shown 
to any lady of his acquaintance. Indeed, the fair deli- 
cate, refined beauty of Em. could not be disguised by 
her coarse, blue calico suit and plain, white cambric 
bonnet. 

“ This way, if you please, sir,” she said, at length, as 
she turned into Laundry Lane and picked her way, 
through its fetid, sloppy walk, towards her father’s 
house. 


252 


“ Em. 


Fortunately for her feelings, she did not see the in- 
voluntary look of surprise and disgust that came over 
her companion’s face. 

“ It is not much farther now, sir ; my father’s house 
is at the other end of the row, only,” she added, as she 
tripped along, ahead, and at length paused before the 
little, green painted door that led into the white- 
washed cottage she called her home. 

She opened the door and admitted her party at once 
into the tidy front room, which we have already de- 
scribed as doing double duty of parlor and principal 
bed-chamber for that small house and large family. 

“ Sit down here, if you please, sir, and I will go in the 
kitchen and speak to mother,” she said, as she placed a 
chair for her guest and passed quickly into the back 
room, where she found Susan Palmer, as usual, up to 
her elbows in the wash-tub. 

“ Mother, there’s a gentleman in the front room wants 
to speak to you,” she said. 

“ Hi, Em.! you out of school a'ready ? I didn’t know 
as it was nigh twelve o’clock yet, and the table not set 
for dinner ! A gentleman wants to speak to me ? 
What for ? Washing, I s’pose ! I can’t take no more 
washing. There now !” 

“ Oh, mother, it is not about washing. But, please, 
come in and see him, do?” said Em. 

“Well, I s’pose it’s tracts or something! Let me 
make myself decent first,” muttered the laundress, as 
she took her red arms out of the wash-tub and wiped 
them dry with a coarse crash towel. 

Then she proceeded to dress for company by the 
simple process of taking off her apron and letting down 
the tucked-up skirt and rolled-up sleeves of her neat, 
brown calico dress. 

“Now set the table for dinner, Em., while I go in 


Ronald Bruce. 


253 


and see the gentleman,” she said, as she finally shook 
herself into order and went into the front room. 

Em. was just a little disappointed, as the door closed 
after her mother, and she felt that she should see no 
more of the brave and courteous gentleman who had 
saved her life and treated her with such chivalric re- 
spect as she had never before received. 

For the first time Em. sighed deeply without knowing 
why, as she raised the leaves of the folding table, and 
laid the cloth for dinner. 

She heard a brisk conversation going on in the ad- 
joining room, but could not hear its purport. 

She finished setting the table to the very last item, 
and then took her work-basket, half full of hose, and 
sat down to darn them while waiting for that interview 
to end. 

Twenty minutes, that seemed two hours, passed, and 
then Em. heard the front door open and heard the 
visitor taking leave. 

She heard the door shut on him, and the next instant 
the communicating door opened and Mrs. Palmer 
entered the kitchen, leading the little vagrant in her 
hand. 

“ Oh, mother, you have consented to take her ! Dear, 
good mother, I knew you would ! I told them you 
would — the Lord bless your tender heart ! ” exclaimed 
Em. forgetting her disappointment at not taking leave 
of the lieutenant in her pleasure at having the little 
orphan received. 

But Mrs. Palmer astonished her daughter by drop- 
ping down in her chair, exclaiming : 

“ I do think I’m the most put upon ’oman as the Lord 
ever did make ! As if I hadn’t children enough of my 
own ’dout having of a strange child set right down on 
top o’ me, whether or no J ” 


254 


‘ Em. 


Fortunately, the poor little Italian could not under- 
stand one word of this discourse, or even suspect that 
it was directed to herself ; for all the time Susan 
Palmer talked, she held the little imp on her lap, with 
her arm around its waist. 

But Em. heard all this with dismay, and, if the truth 
must be told, though she knew the language, she under- 
stood no more of it than did the child. It was so unlike 
her mother ! 

“Why, mammy dear,” she said in a tone of distress, 
“if you do not wish to keep the poor child you need 
not do it. Send her back to the magistrate, and he will 
send her to the alms-house.” 

“ Oh, yes ! I reckon I will ! Send the innercent 
creetur to the alms-house to live on tainted meat and 
sour bread ! That would be like me y wouldn’t it ? I 
can’t do it, there ! I couldn’t do it to save my life ! ” 
cried Susan Palmer, squeezing the child to her stomach. 

“ I knew you couldn’t, dear mammy,” said Em. 

“ But I’m the ///-treatedest poor soul as ever lived on 
this yeth ! that I am ! just as if my burdens wa’n’t 
heavy enough a’ready, ’dout having this burden dropped 
down on top of me ! I think it is a down-right sin and 
shame ! 1 do ! ” exclaimed Susan Palmer, hugging her 

heavy new burden to keep her words from hurting it. 

“ But, dear mother, no one imposes this upon you. 
You can send — ” 

“ I won’t send her nowhere ! Catch me a turning a 
poor, motherless baby like this out o’ doors ! I would’nt 
do it — no, not if I hadn’t but one loaf o’ bread to divide 
among you all She should have her share of it ! So 
you shut up, Em. ! I’m astonished at you a wanting any 
such a cruelty as for to send this pitiful, helpless little 
orphan baby to the poor-house — that I am !” 

“ Dear mother, I did not want you to send her away ; 


Ronald Brzice . 


255 


but I also didn’t want you to feel as if you were put 
upon.” 

“ Well, there ! don’t say another word about it ! What 
in the world is the use of making such a terrible fuss 
over it, anyhow, I’d like to know ? My gracious alive, 
gal, one child ain’t a going to make such a diff’ence in a 
house full! The little mite this child is a gwine to eat 
ain’t a gwine to make nor yet to break us ! So you 
needn’t kick up so much fuss over it !” 

Poor Em. had not been making the least bit of fuss 
over anything. Inconsistent Susan, at war with herself, 
had been making it all. But Em. did not defend her- 
self ; she was too happy in having the little waif adopted 
into the family, to care about herself just then. 

“Well, mother dear, since shew to stay with us, hadn’t 
you better let me take her up stairs and wash her ? 
Some of little Mollie’s clothes that she has outgrown 
would fit her well, I think,” suggested Em. 

“ Yes, take her away, and make her decent before the 
father comes in,” replied Mrs. Palmer, lifting the child 
from her lap. 

Em. took the docile little creature by the hand and 
led her up to the little room over the kitchen, occupied 
as a bed-chamber by herself and the girls. 

Here it was a downright delight to this motherly 
maiden to strip and wash the little waif clean from head 
to foot, and then to i*ub her dry until the clear, brown 
skin glowed ; then to comb out and brush the purple- 
black hair until it glistened ; and then to dress the little 
form in clean underclothing and a clean, faded pink cal- 
ico slip, and a white apron ; lastly, to take her down 
renovated into her mother’s presence. 

“ Isn’t it worth all the trouble just to look at her now, 
mother !” asked Em., as she sat down and drew the child 
to her side. 


256 


“ Em. 


“ What have you done with the old clothes, Em.? 
There may be something catching in them," said the 
practical laundress. 

“ Oh, I just rolled them up and raised the window 
and dropped them into the back yard. I will wash 
them mj’self, mother, and then put them into the rag-bag 
for they are not fit for anything else. And oh ! about 
that ! Aunt Monica says she can use up all the rags 
she can get, cutting them in strips and plaiting them, 
and making them into door-mats ; so I promised we 
would give her all we did not need for patching,” said 
Em. 

“ Oh, yes ! you would give the last gownd offen your 
back, and go about in your petticoat the rest of your 
life ! But here’s father. So put the dinner on the 
table.” 

“ All right, mother.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

RECEIVING ANGELS. 

“ Welcome the child,” the good man said, 

“ Make room for her at board and bed.” 

“ Hallo ! hallo ! hallo !” exclaimed John Palmer, as he 
entered the kitchen and perceived the new addition to 
the family circle. “ What little woman is this ? One 
of Mother Em.’s children ?” 

“ Yes,” replied Susan Palmer, relapsing into her dis- 
content — “one of Em.’s pick-ups ! I do declare to man, 
I’m the most put upon ’oman as ever lived in this world ! 


Receiving Angels. 


2 57 


As if I hadn’t children enough of my own ’dout having 
all the little foreign wagrants in the world hev on top 
me !” 

“ Come, come, ole ‘oman, it ain’t quite as bad as that. 
This little gipsy is not all the foreign wagrants in the 
world ! So cheer up, and give her a good dinner and 
let her go home,” said John. 

“ Well, now, John Palmer, where do you expect to go 
to when you die? And how can you hope any good 
will come to your own childun. When you want to 
turn this poor, dear, little, homeless, helpless, harmless 
orphan baby out to perish in the streets ! I’m aston- 
ished at you, John Palmer ! You, a Christian man, who 
hears the gospel preached every Sunday and goes to 
communion every month ! Why I wouldn’t turn this 
child out, John Palmer — no ! not if I hadn’t but one loaf 
o’ bread left in the house and didn’t know where the 
next was to come from ! I hope, John, as no judgment 
will fall on your head for your wicked words, I do !” 

“ Why, good laws alive ! what's the matter with the 
’oman ? Who wants to turn the orphan child out ? I 
don’t, the Lord knows. Why, I didn’t even know as it 
was an orphan child or as it had come to stay. I just 
thought that it was one o’ them little uns as Em. is 
always a fetching in to wash and feed. It’s welcome 
enough to stay for me, Susan, ’oman !” said Palmer, 
heartily. 

“ There, I knew you would, John, ole man, Lord bless 
you. And if we are put upon, as we are , you know, why, 
we’ll just take up the burdens as Providence lays onto 
us and bear them cheerfully.” 

“ And, after all, Susan, ’oman, this little un is sent ns 
to fill up our measure like. We have got nine children, 
with two years betune each of ’em, and the youngest, 
little Molly, is seven, and if we had another it would 


258 


“ Em. 


have been five years old, which I take to be about the 
age of this little un. — How old are you, my little ’oman ?” 
said John Palmer, suddenly, drawing the child to him. 

Valencia replied with a babble of broken music. 

“ I can’t make head nor tail of all that,” sighed John, 
adding — “ But ‘Sich is life and as I was saying to you, 
Susan, ’oman, this child comes right in to fill up the 
place of the little angel that never did come.” 

“ Yes, John ! and only think what a saving she has 
been to us ! we have never had any nusses, nor doctor’s 
bills, nor baby linen, nor soothing syrup, nor nothing to 
pay for her, and now she comes right in to wear all 
little Molly’s outgrown clothes, and just think what a 
saving that is also !” 

“ Certainly it is !” replied John. “ And so now let’s 
sit down to dinner. Give me the little un and I’ll hold 
her on my lap and feed her, as it's the first day, to make 
her welcome like. And may be when it’s quite conven- 
ient, ole ’oman, you’ll tell me where Em. picked up the 
child, and all about her. What ! shin soup for dinner ? 
That’s good ! I’ll warrant you the little gipsy ’ll like 
that ! Won’t you, stranger ?” demanded John, as he 
drew his chair to the table and lifted the child to his 
knee. 

The little creature, ever ready to respond to such 
kindness as she had never before received in her life, 
trilled her answer as musically and as unintelligibly as 
a foreign bird. 

“ Blessed if I know what she means !” sighed John. 

“ Why, father,- you can see this much — she means she 
is glad and grateful,” said Em. 

“ So she does, the poor, little mite. And she shan’t 
be glad or grateful for nothing, neither. We’ll take 
care on her, Sue, my dear. Now, childun /” 

At this signal all the family around the table bowed 


Receiving A ngels . 


259 


their heads and gave thanks to the Lord for what they 
were about to receive. 

Then the father helped them all, and began to feed 
the little stranger on his knee, as he ate, and to teach 
her a few words of English. 

“ See this that I give you in this spoon. This is soup. 
Say, soup !” 

The child looked puzzled. 

“ Soup /” repeated John. 

“ Zoope,” cooed the child, at length comprehending 
what he wanted her to do. 

“ That’s a lady ! Now — shin soup !” 

“ Zin zoope,” said the child, smiling all over her face. 

“ That’s it ! Now ! this that I hold in my hand is 
bread. Say — bread !” 

“ Bed,” murmured the child. 

“ There, that will do now. ‘ Sich is life !’ Soup and 
bread ; that will do for the first lesson. Mind you don’t 
let her forget it, Em. And now, mother, tell us where 
the little creature came from.” 

Mrs. Palmer told the story of the poor, little Italian as 
she had heard it from Em. and from the young lieuten- 
ant. 

“ Well !” blowed John, indignantly, when he heard of 
the cruelty with which the brutal ruffian had abused the 
child; “ hanging would be a downright honor to a wretch 
like that ! And as to what would follow after that , I 
don’t know. I should think that Satan himself would 
be ashamed to give such a villyun house room. But 
— ‘ sich is life !’ ” 

When dinner was over John put on his hat and hur- 
ried off to his work at the arsenal. 

Susan Palmer, who declared that of late years she 
never could do any hard work immediately after dinner, 


26 o 


“ Em. 


took the tired child and sat down in a rocking chair to 
rock her to sleep. 

Em. cleared away the table and set some of the soup 
back on the stove to keep warm for the children, who 
would not be home from their school until four o’clock. 

“Now, mother,” said Em., as soon as she had set the 
room in order, “ it is too late for me to go to school to- 
day ; but I can go over to Dr. Willet’s and see if I can 
get w T ork for old Aunt Monica.” 

“Very well, Em. Hurry back, for I shall want you 
to help me to contrive a sleeping place for this child,” 
replied Mrs. Palmer. 

Em. filled a pitcher with beef soup and then put on 
her bonnet and hastened away. 

At the end of the lane she found old Monica sitting 
at the door of the red brick hut and knitting. 

“ Oh, Aunt Monica, here is some nice beef soup. It 
will give you strength. Let me come in the house 
and pour it out in a bowl for you,” she said, pausing. 

“ Thankjr, honey ! ’Deed I mighty thankful for this 
here providence ! My goodness, how nice it do smell !” 
exclaimed Monica, springing up briskly, in spite of her 
seventy years, and making way for the young girl to 
enter. 

Em. went to the tiny corner cupboard, found a bowl, 
emptied the soup into it, set it into a plate, laid a large 
spoon beside it, and placed it on the table. 

“ Now then, Aunt Monica. Sit up here and let me 
see you enjoy this, and then I will be off to Dr. Willet’s 
to see about that work for you. I will call as I come 
back and let you know what success I have.” 

“ Yes, honey. Thanky, honey,” said the old woman, 
as she took her seat at the table and fell to on the soup; 
“ and now, honey, I wants you just to set down on that 


7 ? cceiving A ngels . 


261 


there stool, opposide to me, and hear what I got to say 
to you/’ 

Em., amused at the solemnity of this address, yet 
wondering to what it tended, drew the stool up before 
the old woman, seated herself, and waited for the 
oracle. 

“ Honey, didn’t I see a young ge’man followin’ arter 
you down the lane this morning ? ” 

“ Yes, Aunt Monica.” 

“ Now, honey, you give me soup, which is good for 
me, and I takes it werry grateful. Now, I wants to 
give you counsel, which is better for you, and which I 
hope you will take it, whether grateful or not.” 

“ I shall be grateful, Aunt Monica, for any counsel 
you can give me,” said Em. gravely. 

“ Yes, honey. Well, then, Miss Em., don’t you let no 
young ge’man follow arter you, ’specially when he wear 
gilt shoulder straps, and moves in a speer s’perior to 
your own. Take an ole ’oman’s wice, honey, and don’t/' 

“ Why, Aunt Monica,” said the girl, blushing in- 
tensely without knowing why, “ this gentleman was 
following me, indeed, but not for my sake.” 

“ Oh ! he wa’n’t, wa’n’t he ? Werry well, den ! 
You’ll see ! ” 

“ I shall never see him again. Aunt Monica,” said 
the girl, with an involuntary sigh. 

“ You won’t, won’t you ? Werry well, den. You’ll 
see ! But, arter all, I hope and pray as you won’t see 
anything more of him — he a walking behind you and a 
eating of you up with his eyes — a grand vilyun ! I was 
a good mind to heave a bucket full of soapsuds on his 
head, that I was ! What call he following you down in- 
to this lane ? You ain’t no young lady, and this ain’t no 
’rastocratic place for him to come poking his nose into. 
I will heave a tub full o’ suds on top of him next time 


262 


“ Em. 


he shows his gilt shoulder straps and his impidence 
here — that I will ! ” 

“ Oh, Aunt Monica, you make me feel very unhappy, 
you do indeed. Will you let me tell you why that 
gentleman came into the lane ? It was a noble act of 
humanity. Did — ” 

“Yes, I b’lieve in de humanity,” interrupted old 
Monica. “ I b’lieve in de humanity if humanity means 
human nater ! Dere’s a great deal o’ human natur’ 
about that young man, and that I tell you. I ain’t been 
reading faces seventy years ’dout knowin’ human natur’ 
in a man’s eyes when I see it there.” 

“ Aunt Monica, listen to me. Didn’t you see that 
gentleman leading a poor, little, ragged child by the 
hand ? ” inquired the distressed listener. 

“ Oh ! yes, honey, I see that, too. That was nuffin 
but a ’scuse — that same poor little child as you picked 
up fust, and he ’tended for to take an int’rest in for a 
’scuse to follow arter you — eatin’ of you up wid his big, 
black eyes all de time ! ” 

Em. started, not with an altogether painful surprise. 
She saw the conduct of the young man in a new light, 
and not an entirely disagreeable one. It was certainly 
herself — Em. — whom the young gentleman had first 
intervened to save from death from the club of the 
maddened drunkard. Had he afterwards really pursued 
his interest in the child for her sake ? It was a wonder- 
ful revelation to Em.’s happy ignorance. 

“ And so, if ever that fellow do show his black, hairy 
face in this lane ag’in, he’ll get a shower o’ scaldin’ hot 
soap-suds over his gilt buttons, just as sure as my 
name’s Moniky Ann Wyndeworth.” 

“Aunt Monica, please let me tell you all about it,” 
said Em., and she began and related the whole adven- 
ture in the alley, where she first rescued the child from 


R eceiving A ngels. 


263 


the clutches of the brute who was beating her, and the 
young lieutenant afterwards saved her from falling 
under the uplifted club of the enraged ruffian. 

“ Well, honey, it sound all very fair ; but for all that 
don’t you ’courage dat young gentleman to follow arter 
you. Dere’s too much human nater in him,” said 
Monica, shaking her old head. 

“ I shall never see him again, Aunty,” sighed Em. 

“ I hopes you won’t honey, that’s all I’ve got to say.” 

“Well, I am going now. I will call when I come 
back to let you know the result, and to take back my 
pitcher,” said the girl, rising to leave the hut. 

Em. walked thoughtfully on, in the direction of Dr. 
Willet’s house. 

It is not certain that under any circumstances Em. 
could have forgotten the handsome young officer who 
had that morning saved her life, and had accompanied 
her home, showing her more respect than she had ever 
received from any one before ; but it is certain that the 
well-meant but ill-spoken warnings of old Monica 
against this very young man had fixed his image in the 
girl’s mind, and made it impossible for her to forget 
him. 

In a very short time Em. reached the doctor’s house, 
where, it will be remembered, two of her sisters were 
in service' — Ann, a strapping lass of twenty, as house- 
maid, and Jane, a bouncing girl of eighteen, as nurse- 
maid. 

Em. rapped at the servants’ door, and was admitted 
by Ann, who welcomed her warmly, and asked “ how 
they all were at home,” telling her at the same time 
that Jane had gone out with the mistress’s children. 

Em. answered all questions satisfactorily, and then 
told her sister the errand upon which she had come. 

“ Well, now,” said Nancy, “ see there ! Why, you are 


264 


“Em." 


just in the nick of time ! Mrs. Willet asked me to 
inquire around for some woman who could come into 
the house and mend carpets, and curtains, and bed- 
quilts and blankets before they are packed away for 
the season ; but she will have to come here, because 
the work is too bunglesome to send out, you know.” 

“ Yes, of course, and that will be better for the old 
woman too, for she will live well here, and that is what 
she don’t do at home, poor soul. Well, had I better 
send her to-morrow morning ?” 

“ Yes, early, so she can make a whole day’s work ; 
for, mind you, I am sure Mrs. Willet will take her.” 

“ Well, then, good-by, Nanny. I must hurry away. 
Oh ! I had almost forgot to tell you mother’s adopted 
a child! ’said Em., turning back to communicate this 
news. 

“ Mother’s adopted a — !” exclaimed Nan, in open- 
mouthed astonishment. 

“ Yes, a little, Italian orphan, the prettiest little 
creature you ever saw in all your life ; but I can’t stop 
now. Come up to-night, if you can get leave, and I 
will tell you all about it and show you the child.” 

“Very well. I will come if I can. — There’s the door- 
bell. I must answer it.” 

“Well, then, good-by, and .God bless you !” said Em.; 
this odd child always added a benediction to her adieux. 

Em. hastened down the back alley and came around 
to the sidewalk just as she heard a familiar voice, speak- 
ing on the front stoop, say : 

“ I am sorry not to have found the doctor and Mrs. 
Willet at home. Be so good as to tell them that I 
called to bid them good-by.” 

“Very well, sir,” replied Nanny, as she closed the 
door upon the departing visitor, who tripped lightly 
down the door steps. 


Receiving Angels. 


265 


Em.’s heart stood still and deprived her for a moment 
of the power of motion, for she found herself face to 
face with her new acquaintance of the morning. 

“ Ah ! This is an unexpected pleasure !” his eloquent 
eyes said, as he lifted his cap and looked on her lovely 
young face. 

Em. crimsoned to the edges of her hair, and was 
vexed with herself for doing so. She tried to reply, 
and became angry with herself because she could not. 

“ Is it not late for a young lady to be out and unattend- 
ed ?” inquired the lieutenant, with a smile. 

Em., by some miracle, recovered both her speech and 
her composure, and answered to the point : 

“Yes, sir ; I suppose it would be late for any young 
lady to be out : but I am not, either in years or in 
station, a young lady.” 

“ You are assuredly a young lady, or I do not know 
one when I see her,” responded the officer. 

“ Good-night, sir,” said Em., as she passed on. 

“ Pray, pause one moment, and do not deem me in- 
trusive. I have no wish to be so. But it is late for you 
to be out alone. The sun is down and it is growing 
dark. Remember that this morning, in broad daylight, 
you were subjected to rudeness.” 

“ Yes, sir, and threatened with instant death, which 
would have been my fate if it had not been for you,” 
gratefully added Em. 

“ Let that pass. I am happy to have served you. You 
are going home ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ My way lies in that direction. Pray permit me the 
pleasure of seeing you safe, at least, as far as our paths 
diverge — that is, at the opening of your lane.” 

“ I thank you, sir ; but indeed,” said Em., remember- 
ing the warning of old Monica, and being, therefore, 


266 


“ Em . 


determined to repulse her new escort, “ there is not the 
least danger, nor am I the least afraid. I have been 
used to running on errands both by day and by night 
ever since I was a little child. No one ever harmed 
me, or even threatened to harm me until this morning, 
and that wouldn't have happened if I had been minding 
my own business, instead of meddling with that of 
others,” she added, with a smile. 

“ Yes ; but, you little Dona Quixota,if you should hap- 
pen to see another brute beating a child, vou would 
make it your business to meddle again.” 

“ I suppose I should,” laughed Em. 

“ And you would need your faithful squire to defend 
you. Come, Miss Palmer, you must really permit me 
to keep you in sight until I see you safely in your 
father’s house.” 

“ No farther than the entrance of the lane, if you 
please, sir. I shall be perfectly safe there ; and, indeed, 
I should be safe anywhere. Such an incident as that of 
this morning is not likely to recur. But I thank you 
all the same, sir,” said Em., not knowing how, without 
apparent rudeness, to shake off the proffered escort of 
this young man, to whom she already owed a debt of 
gratitude. 

They walked on, Lieutenant Bruce taking her by the 
quietest and most retired way, and talking in a manner 
to make her forget the difference in their rank, the 
poverty of her lot, even the flight of time, until, at last, 
they reached the entrance of the lane. It looked as 
dark as the mouth of Tophet, and breathed as foul an 
odor. He felt the girl shudder as with a new sense of 
the deadly atmosphere in which she lived. He pitied 
her from his soul that she was forced to stay where he 
could not have breathed in comfort for a moment. 

Then and there he resolved that by some means or 


Receiving Angels. 


267 


other he would get her father’s family out of that place 
and into better quarters without wounding their self- 
respect with any pretence of patronage. 

All this passed in an instant through his kindly and 
practical mind. Then the sudden wish to say some- 
thing to comfort and strengthen her inspired him. 

“ Do not look down, my child. Look up to the starry 
heavens bending over you,” he murmured. 

And then he spoke of those worlds of light that none 
of earth’s misery could ever hide or dim, always shining, 
shining down upon mankind with their promise of 
eternal compensation for temporal troubles. He told 
her how the stars had been men’s first guides to true 
ideas of a higher life than this. And he would have 
talked longer, and she would have listened, but that a 
nameless fear possessed her, and revealed itself even to 
him. 

“ You had better let me see you to your father’s door,” 
said the lieutenant, as he paused. 

“Oh, no, sir, pray do not think of it. Our paths 
naturally divide here. I am at home in every part of 
the lane, and therefore quite safe. Please take my 
thanks and go on your way,” said Em., anxiously, for 
she dreaded the farther attendance of her new acquaint- 
ance, on account of the severe criticisms it would pro- 
voke from old Monica, and perhaps even the unjust re^ 
marks it might draw from others. 

Thus dismissed, the young man raised his hat and 
silently walked away. 

Em. felt that she had wounded his feelings and her 
own heart ached. She, who would not willingly have 
hurt the humblest or the most unworthy creature, had 
pained one who seemed to her to be among the most 
excellent of the earth, who had saved her life only 
that very morning, and had showed her nothing but 


268 


“ Em. 


respect and kindness ever since. She felt that, through 
fear of criticism, she had made a serious mistake ; for 
that it would have been more prudent as well as more 
polite in her to have permitted her escort to take her to 
her father’s house, and enter and make the acquaintance 
of honest John Palmer. 

Em. learned the lesson taught by second thought, 
j and resolved henceforth to have more confidence in her 
\ own judgment. 

On reaching the little red hut, Em. looked for the old 
woman on her usual seat in the door. 

But Aunt Monica was not there. 

So Em. lifted the latch and went in, where she found 
her protegee sitting in a low chair over a few embers. 

“ Ay, ay, so you have come at last, Miss. Well, I 
couldn’t sit out there waiting for you any longer. The 
evenings this time o’ year is mostly damp and chilly. 
Well, now, honey, sit down and res’ yourself, and tell 
me what’s the p’ospect for work.” 

“Thank you, Aunt Monica. I haven’t got time to 
sit down. Well, you know where Dr. Willet lives ? ” 

“ In course I do. Wasn’t him and his father before 
him family phersician to old Marse Captain Wynde- 
worth, and ain’t I been in his orfis time and again? 
Sure I know where he live.” 

“ Well, auntie, you are to go there to-morrow and set 
in for about a month’s work in mending up carpets, 
curtains, blankets, quilts, and so on, before putting them 
away for the summer. And you will be in clover there 
and live on the fat of the land, besides having good 
wages.” 

“And all through you, Miss Em.! Lord bless you, 
child, you are the mother of the poo** !” 

“ Don’t auntie ; you know I am not that.” 

“You is ! you is !” 


The Dreamer. 


269 


“ And don't deserve your praise.” 

“ You does ! you does !” 

“ Good-night, auntie ! Be sure to go early to the Wil- 
lets’!” 

“ I’ll be there with my thread-case and old brass 
thimble by sunrise, honey, and most thankful to you for 
getting it for me !” exclaimed old Monica. 

Em., taking her empty pitcher from the table where 
it stood waiting for her, ran out of the hut to escape the 
exaggerated gratitude of the old negress. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE DREAMER. 

O’er her brow a change hath passed ; 

In the softness of her eyes 
Deep and still a shadow lies ; 

From her voice there thrills a tone 

Never to her childhood known. Hemans. 

All the little houses in the lane were dark, as if the 
people had retreated to their back premises — except 
John Palmer’s cottage, from the upper and lower win- 
dows of which light streamed, showing that all was ac- 
tive life within. 

Em. lifted the latch and entered that front room which, 
as I have said, was both chamber and parlor in that 
little house with the large family. 

No one was in the front room, but through the open 
door leading into the back one Em. could see that the 
latter was full. All the family seemed to be there as- 


270 


“ Em. 


sembled, and all were making a hospitable fuss over the 
last addition to their circle. 

There was Jack, now a sergeant of marines, stationed 
with his company at the barracks ; Jim, a journeyman 
hatter, boarding near his business ; Ann, housemaid, 
and Jane, nursemaid at Dr. Willet’s ; Tom, apprenticed 
to a carpenter and joiner ; Ned, bound to a painter and 
glazier ; and the two little girls Nell and Molly, home 
from the day-school. 

They had the little Italian standing upon a chair, and 
were gathered around her, vying with each other as to 
who should show her the most attention. 

“Here’s Em. now,” said Sergeant Jack. “Sister, I 
was just going to look for you. You mustn’t stay out 
so late another night ! You’re a deal too pretty to be 
wandering around by yourself !” 

“ Why, Em., we didn't start for half an hour after you 
left the house, and we got here, before you !” said Nan. 

“Yes, but we walked very fast and sometimes ran,” 
put in Jenny. 

“ And I sauntered and stopped at Aunt Monica’s hut, 
also. But I was not alone ; I had company,” said Em. 

“ ‘ Company !” echoed Jack. 

“ Yes. Mother, the gentleman who brought little 
Valencia to you this morning was just coming down Dr. 
Willet’s steps as I was coming out of the gate, and he 
knew me again, and said, considering what had hap- 
pened in the morning, he thought it was not safe for me 
to walk home at that hour of the night alone ; and added 
that he was going my way, and would see me safe ; so 
he came to the head of the lane with me, and would 
have come farther, only I told him there was no need, 
and so took leave of him there. Was that right?” 

“ Yes,” said Susan Palmer, and catching John’s 
anxious eye, she added : “ Now don’t you be looking 


The Dreamer . 


27 


so glum, father, putting thoughts into the child’s head 
that would never come there of their own accord. The 
young man told me himself, when he brought Valencia 
here this morning, that he was going away to-morrow. 
Yes, Em., my gal, you did right enough.” 

“ Was that the young gentleman that came to say 
good-by to Mrs. Willet, just as I was hurrying you off, 
Em. ?” inquired Nan. 

“ Yes,” replied her sister. 

“ Oh, he’s just a splendid young man ! He is the 
nephew and heir to old Commodore Bruce, and Dr. and 
Mrs. Willet just think the world and all of him. Why, 
he would speak to a beggar with as much politeness as 
he would to a king !” exclaimed Nan. 

Em. winced just a little, as the thought passed through 
her mind that there had been nothing particular, after 
all, in the young man’s courteous manner towards her- 
self. He would have behaved in the same way to old 
Aunt Monica. And then Em. took herself to task for 
egotism, in feeling annoyed because she had reason to 
believe that she was not the sole object of Lieutenant 
Bruce’s fascinating politeness. 

“ Why should he not be affable to all ? I am too vain. 
Besides what is he to me, that I should care what he 
does ?” 

The little family party were now, however, breaking 
up. Nan and Jenny began to take leave by kissing 
everybody all around. 

“ Wait, girls ; Jim and I will see you safe home ; it 
ain’t much out of our way,” said Sergeant Jack. “ And 
mind, mother, I shall lay aside ten per cent, out of my 
pay to support that little foreigner,” he added. 

“ And the same off mine, mother, for the same pur- 
pose,” said Jim. 

“ What, boys ! after giving me the half of all your 


2J2 


“ Em. 


airnings, to go and add a tithe for the child ! A think 
you had better put by somethink for yoursel/ against 
the time when you will get married, and have childun 
of your own to provide for.” 

The two young fellows laughed, but made no other 
answer than to kiss their mother good-night. 

“ ‘ Sich is life,’ ” said John, as he locked the door 
after his departing children. 

And now there was a problem to be solved : Where 
was the little stranger to be put to sleep ? The house 
had but four rooms in it, and all these rooms were full. 

In the front room, (parlor and chamber in one,) on the 
high bedstead, slept John and his wife. In the little 
trundle-bed, that was drawn out from beneath it every 
night, lay the two children, Nelly and Molly. In the 
upper room slept Nancy Whitlock and Em. in one bed. 
In the back room, over the kitchen, were the two boys, 
Tom and Ned. 

“ Now where was the little one to be put ?” 

After much debate, during which the child, who un- 
derstood the drift of the discourse, if not the words, had 
made signs that she could sleep on the trunk, that she 
could lie on the door-mat, that she could sleep on the 
floor, it was decided that if the trundle-bed was large 
enough for two, it was large enough for three, and little 
Valencia should sleep with Nell and Molly — to the 
great satisfaction and delight of the children. 

And then, at length, John Palmer called them all 
together for family prayers, after which they separated 
for the night, or rather went to bed without much 
separation. 

They were hard workers, hearty feeders, and heavy 
sleepers in that house ; and so they were all soon in the 
land of oblivion — all except one — and that one was 
not Ann Whitlock ; for the champion worker, feeder 


The D r earner. 


2 73 


and sleeper there was Mrs. Whitlock, and no sooner did 
she lay her head upon her pillow and close her eyes 
than she died entirely dead for about eight hours. She 
lay like a log from ten at night to six in the morning, 
and was therefore as quiet a bed-fellow as any living 
being could be. 

The unsleeping eyes were those of Em. The girl 
had more material for imagination that night than she 
had ever taken to her pillow before ! 

Indeed, Em. had never before found any food for 
fancy. Brought up in a narrow alley, in the most 
crowded part of the city, among sordid and sorrowful 
surroundings, in a toiling and self-denying family, 
Em.’s life had been strangely hard, practical and pro- 
saic ; and thence all her conceptions of life were very 
prosaic, practical and hard. 

Confined to that contracted sphere, she had never in 
her life seen a field or a forest, scarcely ever heard a 
bird sing, or seen a flower bloom. She had never read 
a novel, a poem, or a play, and never seen a public 
exhibition of any sort, except those of the free school 
examinations, which were then conducted in the cheap- 
est and plainest manner, without music and without 
recitations of any sort except those of the class lessons. 

The life that Em. had led, the life of ceaseless labor 
and perfect self-denial in the service of her own needy 
family and of her still more needy neighbors in that 
wretched lane, had developed her benevolence and con- 
scientiousness to a very high degree, but had left fancy 
’and imagination dormant — dormant, not dead nor ab- 
sent ; for deep down in her nature, without ever having 
“ devoured” a romance, Em. was romantic ; without 
ever having dreamed over a poem, she was poetical ; 
without ever having roamed through a field or forest, 
or bathed her spirit in the beauty of flowers or the music 


“ Em. 


274 


of birds, Em. was full of sentiment. Yes ! without ever 
having raised her eyes from the absorbing duties around 
heart and home to the visible heavens, Em. was full of 
aspiration — vague, indeed, but very strong. 

All this latent romance, poetry, sentiment, aspiration, 
was destined to be awakened and aroused by the advent 
of the young man whose acquaintance she had made 
that day, under circumstances fated to fix him in her 
memory forever. Nothing had ever come into her mo- 
notonous little life that had made so deep an impres- 
sion upon her mind as this noble, handsome, and cour- 
teous young man, whose visible presence seemed lost to 
her forever, but whose image returned to memory, in 
reverie, idealized ! in dreams, glorified ! 

And now, on this summer night, when all the house- 
hold slept heavily, Em. lay awake, dreaming of her new 
friend, dreaming of Ronald Bruce, recalling every word 
he had spoken to her, every intonation of his voice, 
every look he had bent upon her, every gesture, every 
movement. What strong, beautiful eyes he had ! large, 
full, gray and deeply fringed with darkest lashes ! 
What speaking eyes, and how they talked to her ! Ah ! 
they had said more than ever his lips had spoken ! His 
lips had talked on many subjects ; but what had his 
grand, beautiful eyes said ! Ah, what ? 

Whatever it was of joy, delight, blessedness, they 
were saying it still ! they were haunting her, they were 
gazing at her through the darkness ; she could see them 
with her own eyes shut ! 

In the innocence of her ignorance and inexperience, 
Em. could not know what danger there was to her own 
peace in indulging these waking dreams. Even the 
sharp pang that she sometimes felt in the thought that 
she should see him no more, did not warn her of danger. 

She had seen him ! She had had the joy of seeing 


The Dreamer . 


275 


him, and nothing in the world could deprive her of that 
possession. 

She could begin from the moment when one blow 
from his stout stick had sent the club that was aimed 
at her life flying from the ruffian’s hand, and she could 
live over every word, tone, look, gesture, through all 
their short acquaintance to the last moment when, at 
the entrance of the dark and noisome lane, he had 
pointed her to the starry heavens above, and said : 

“ Look up ! There is no spot of earth so poor, so 
bare, so sad, so low, but we may lift our eyes above it 
to the worlds of light beyond ! You have no parterres 
of flowers here, no bowers of roses, no shrubberies, no 
groves, but, my child, you have the sublimest sight in 
nature, the starry heavens ! Every star is a sun or a 
world ! When you weary of this sad lane, look up at 
the sun by day or the starry heavens by night. The 
earth in all its splendor can give you nothing so sub- 
lime or beautiful as the heavens by day or night. And 
even if, for a season, clouds and darkness hide them, 
you know that they are there, and will soon reappear.” 

So he had spoken to her, as no one had ever taken 
the trouble to speak before. 

And how had she received his words ? She had not 
replied at all ; but when he offered to see her to her 
father’s door, she had repulsed his kindness and insisted 
on his leaving her then and there. 

He had lifted his hat and walked away. He had left 
her forever. She should never see him more ; though 
she could still see his strong, beautiful, dark-gray eyes, 
looking on her through the darkness, talking to her — 
of what ? 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

LOVE. 

You cannot know the good and tender heart, 

It’s girl’s trust, it’s woman’s constancy. 

How pure, yet passionate, how calm, yet kind, 

How grave, yet joyous, how reserved, yet free 
As air where friends are — and imbued with love 
The world most prizes — though the simplest. 

Browning. 

With daylight came duty, and henceforth Em. lived 
two lives — the outward life of action, the inner one of 
dreams. 

She arose early and helped her mother to get break- 
fast and afterwards to wash the dishes and clean up the 
kitchen. 

Then she went to school. 

On her way she passed the red brick hut at the end 
of the lane, and finding it shut up and locked fast, she 
knew that its occupant, old Monica, had gone to work 
at Dr. Willet’s. 

So another of her prot'egtes was provided for, and 
Em. was so far relieved of responsibility. 

In school a busy term was before the pupils — they 
were preparing for the midsummer examination, which 
was to come off in the last week of June ; and in two 
months of hard study they were to make up for the lax 
[276] 


Love. 


277 


labor of the preceding eight — and then two months of 
holiday would reward their efforts. 

Let me hurry over this part of my story. 

Em. had applied herself faithfully to her books ever 
since she had been at the institution, and now she was 
at the head of the highest class ; but still she studied as 
diligently as the most negligent was obliged to do ; for 
at the approaching examination she hoped to graduate, 
to leave school forever, and devote herself exclusively 
to the service of her poor, hard-working father and 
mother. 

Her busy life, at home and at school, so absorbed her 
whole time and attention during the day that she had 
little opportunity to dream of Ronald Bruce. 

At the close of every day, she was, to borrow Susan 
Palmer’s hyperbolical expression, “ completely worn 
out,” and very glad to lie down ; and not only to rest, 
but to dream, undisturbed, of Ronald Bruce ; to recall 
his image to her mind’s eye, to live over again every 
minute and every incident of their short acquaintance, 
and nourish her soul with its memory ; above all, to 
meet again those strong, beautiful, dark-gray eyes, so 
full of goodness, so eloquent of — what ? 

Ah ! what did those speaking eyes — that she could see 
with her own eyes shut, looking at her through the 
darkness of her room as plainly as she had seen them 
with open vision in full daylight — what did they say to 
her ? 

What did they express ? An aspiration that, if realized, 
would bless them both with happiness. Was that it ? 
She could not tell. 

It was a problem to engage her thoughts, stimulate 
her imagination, and keep her awake night after night, 
until physical weariness overcame mental activity, and 
she slept. 


278 


“ Em. 


At the midsummer examination, Em. graduated with 
the highest honors of her school. These were not very 
high, it must be confessed, for in those days only the 
rudiments of a good English education were taught in 
the public schools. 

Her father and mother, dressed in their Sunday clothes, 
were in the audience, delighted spectators of their 
daughter’s success. 

“ I always said Em. was the smartest as well as the 
purtiest of all our childun,” said the proud father. 

“ Yes, and she’s better’n that ; she’s the most useful,” 
added the fond mother. 

“ But now she’s got her medal and her premiums 
she must have a rest. She’s been a-studying too hard, 
poor girl, to win her prizes; but I do 'suppose she 
couldn’t win ’em without hard work : for ‘ sich is life!’ ” 
said John. 

“ I don’t think as it is all study either,” replied Susan 
Palmer. “ Study never went hard with Em. It sort o’ 
come nateral to her ; she was so quick to learn every- 
thing. But something is the matter with the girl. She 
doesn’t eat enough to keep a kitten alive.” 

“ Oh, if she’s offen her feed, you must give her cham- 
omoile tea ; it is the best thing in the world for the ap- 
petite.” 

“ ’Tain’t only that, but she has lost all her fine spirits, 
and don’t seem to take the same interest in anything as 
she used to take.” 

“ Well, if that’s the case, I ralely don’t know what to 
do ! Lor ! how I wish I was able to send the girl in the 
country for a spell ! I don’t mind working hard for 
poor wages, and living from hand to mouth all my life, 
as long as the childun keep well ! But when any of the 
childun, especially the poor gals, get sick and need 
change, and I not able to give it to them, then, Susan, 


Love . 


279 


woman, my heart rebels ! — it does ! But what’s the use 
o’ talking ! ‘ Sich is life !’ ” 

This low-toned conversation had gone on after Em. 
had received her medal and her premiums, and had 
returned to her seat at the head of the graduating-class, 
and while some of the pupils in the lower classes were 
receiving their premiums. 

Now, however, all the prizes were distributed, and 
the president of the board of examiners arose in his 
place to deliver the valedictory. 

John and Susan ceased their conversation, and listened 
respectfully to the address, of which they heard but 
little and understood less. 

When this was over the audience was dismissed, and 
Em., in her nice white cambric dress and blue sash, 
and straw hat trimmed with blue ribbon, came down to 
join her parents. 

“ Lord bless you, my bright little girl, you have made 
your mother and me very proud to-day to think that 
our daughter carried off all the prizes over the heads of 
girls so much better off in this world’s goods. But ‘ sich 
is life !’ Now, let me tote some of your books, my child, 
for you do look ready to drop ! Yes ! you have come 
out’n this battle wictorious, but weary! But, as I 
observed before, ‘ sich is life.’ You can’t have a great 
wictory without great weariness ! So give me your 
books, my dear, and lean on me arm— heavy !” said 
John Palmer, as he took Em.’s burden from her and 
drew her arm within his own. 

“ That silver medal is an elegant ornimint, Em.,” said 
Mrs. Palmer, looking with much delight at the decora- 
tion that hung suspended by a blue ribbon from the 
neck of the little graduate. 

“ Oh, yes, mother, it is very pretty, but I have some- 
thing here that I like so much better.” 


28 o 


" Em. 


“ What is that, my girl ?” inquired John. 

“ Oh, this !” exclaimed Em., taking from her father’s 
hand a book on Elementary Astronomy. “ This ! It 
tells all about the stars ! You know we don’t study 
that in school, so I am so glad the trustees gave me 
this for a premium in geography. Now I can study at 
home and learn about the stars.” 

“ ‘ Study at home ?’ No, you won’t, my girl ! not if I 
know anything about it ! You shall just do nothing 
but rest yourself, or amuse yourself, for the balance of 
this summer, which, the Lord knows, I wish I was able 
to send you to the country fora spell. It would do you 
good.” 

“ John, we might get her a place at service in the 
country, if we were to inquire among the gentlemen and 
ladies we work for,” suggested Susan. 

“ Hum ! we might, and then again we mightn’t ; and 
if we should, it wouldn’t be for the best, maybe ! ‘ Sich 
is life.’ ” 

Thus conversing they reached home, where all the 
sisters and brothers, with Mrs. Whitlock and Aunt 
Monica, were assembled to welcome the party and to do 
homage to Em.; for it was known that Em. was a can- 
didate for the school honors, and it was expected that 
she would be the successful one. 

Her reception at home was quite an ovation. Every 
one congratulated her. Her brother Jack, the tall ser- 
geant of marines, brought her a blue parasol — the first 
parasol Em. had ever possessed in her life. Jim brought 
her a pair of gray gloves. Ann gave her a hemstitched, 
linen pocket-handkerchief, and Jane a set of collars and 
cuffs. The two apprentice boys, Tom and Ned, had 
clubbed their pocket-money together and bought her 
a little work-box, completely fitted. Susan Palmer 
gave her a comb and brush for her own exclusive use — 


Love. 


28 


and this was one of the greatest benedictions to 
poor Em. Last of all, John Palmer gave his favorite 
daughter a cheap little chest of drawers to keep her 
personal property in. 

Em.w worn down with study and house-work and — 
dreams ; and so she was at this time so weak and 
nervous that, instead of loudly rejoicing at all this good 
fortune, she burst out crying, and exclaimed : 

“ Oh ! surely no one, no one ever had such dear, dear 
parents and sisters and brothers as I have !” 

“ Why, little sister, haven’t you been working hard 
for us all the days of your little life, and so oughtn’t we 
to do something some time or other, to show our sense 
of what we owe you ?” inquired Jack. 

“ And what time so good as this, when you have done 
us all so much credit, going clear over the heads of all 
the young ladies in the school ?” added Jim. 

“ And when you are leaving school for good, too !” 
said Mary Ann. 

“And come out as a young woman at long last !” 
said Jenny. 

“ And so good a girl, and so helpful !” put in Susan 
Palmer. 

“ The prop of our declining years ! And little you 
looked like it in the beginning, and you so fair and 
delicate. But ‘sich is life,’” concluded John. 

“ I think myself as you’d better sit down and eat the 
supper as I have got ready for you,” suggested Mrs. 
Whitlock. 

“Yes, honeys, and try some o’ my morella cherry 
pone, as I ’pared specially in honor o’ this da)',” put in 
old Monica. 

Susan Palmer laughed and took the head of the table, 
and called her numerous family around her. 

After the merry supper was over, the sergeant of 


282 


“ Em. 


marines and the journeyman hatter prepared to take 
leave, but Nan and Jenny conscripted both to see them 
safely home to Dr. Willet’s. 

John Palmer, however, stopped them all to family 
prayers, and then dismissed them with his blessing. 

After their departure, the tired members of the family 
left behind bade each other good-night. 

Em. went to her room, and laid her books out upon 
the little chest of drawers. 

“ Now, Miss Emolyn, afore you turn away from that 
bury, just you look at yourself in the glass,” said the 
solemn voice of Mrs. Whitlock, who, seated on a low 
chair, was engaged in taking off her own shoes and 
stockings. 

Em. turned around and gazed at the old woman in 
surprise. 

“ I didn’t tell you to look at me, but to look in the 
glass. Now look in the glass and see what you see, and 
then listen to what I have got to say to you on this 
eventful day,” continued Ann Whitlock. 

Em. smiled and did as she was bid. 

She had never looked in so large a mirror as this 
that crowned her bureau. Her little dressing glass 
had always been a little four-inch square mirror, that 
hung upon a tack against the wall over the children’s 
washstand, and had barely given her a rather distorted 
image of her face. 

Now she looked for the first time into a larger field 
of mirror that reflected her whole form and face, so 
that she saw before her a lovely maiden, with a stately 
little head covered with an aureole of sunny, golden- 
brown ringlets ; with a broad, full, snow-white fore- 
head ; delicately penciled, dark-brown eyebrows ; large, 
full, dark-blue, tender eyes, veiled with long, thick, 
black eyelashes ; a little, straight, patrician nose ; a 


Love . 


283 


small, plump, red mouth ; a rounded, slightly protruding 
chin, and a perfectly turned throat, beautifully moulded 
bust, and sloping shoulders and tapering waist ; and 
this lovely face and form gracefully adorned by the 
simple dress of clear white muslin and the blue sash 
and blue hair-ribbons. 

Em. blushed with delight at her own beauty, and 
with shame that .she should have such delight in it. 

“Well, you see yourself, don’t you ?” inquired Nurse 
Whitlock. 

“ Yes,” answered the girl, in a very low voice, as she 
went away to the uncurtained front window and looked 
out upon the starry heavens as if with an effort to lift 
her thoughts above such vanities. 

“ Now listen to me,” said Mrs. Whitlock. “ Don’t you 
see that natur’ has made you different from your sisters 
and brothers, Miss Emolyn ?” solemnly inquired Ann 
Whitlock. 

Em. hesitated, and her blush deepened as she finally 
answered : 

“ My dear sisters and brothers are stout and healthy 
and handsome, besides being honest and skillful and 
affectionate, thank Heaven !” 

“ Oh ! yes, I dare say, but you are different from 'em 
all. You are lovely and delicky, and clever and lady- 
like ! You can’t deny ! You are naturally a young lady! 
Anybody would see that in a minit to look at you ! 
Now, Miss Emolyn — ” 

“ Oh ! please, Aunty Whitlock, don’t call me Miss 
Emolyn, and don’t talk to me in this way ! It is not 
right,” pleaded the girl in much embarrassment. 

“ Yes, it is right ! Let who will call you Em., hence- 
forth I shall call you Miss Emolyn ! You ain’t a child 
any longer, you are a young lady.” 

“A young woman, aunty,” said Em. 


284 


“ Em. 


“ A young lady ! or else I never saw one. But it 
wasn’t to pass no idle compliments that I wanted to 
speak to you, Miss Emolyn. I wanted you to look at 
yourself, to see yourself, to know yourself, and then I 
wanted to put you on your guard against yourself and 
against others. Now do you understand me ?” 

“ No, indeed, aunty. I only understand that you mean 
well ; — that is all.” 

“Well, then, listen here, and listen sharp, because I’m 
sleepy and want to go to bed. You’ve ’eft school for- 
ever to-day, haven’t you ?” 

“ Yes, aunty.” 

“ And now you are a young lady, aint you ?” 

“ A young woman, aunty.” 

“ A young lady, I say, and never contradict me again, 
Miss Emolyn ! It ain’t manners to an elder ! — Now, 
then, you’re a young lady, and you’ll be having the 
young men running after you !” 

“ Oh ! no, I will not, aunty !” 

“ I tell you, you will , now don’t contradict me again ; 
I tell you it aint polite to an elder ! You’ll have the 
young men running arter you, same as they run arter 
Mary Ann and Jane ! It is naturel.” 

Em., forbidden to dispute, looked down in silence 
and confusion of face. 

“ Now you know the lot that run after Mary Ann and 
Jane — soldiers from the Marine Barracks, and workmen 
from the Arsenal — ” 

“Yes, aunty, and they were all good, honest young 
men ; the soldiers were brother Jack’s comrades, and 
the workmen were from the same shop with father.” 

“ Oh ! yes, I dare say. Well, and Mary Ann is a-goin’ 
to marry Corporal Smith, and Jane is going to have 
Jones, the machinist.” 

“ Yes, aunty, both good matches, father says.” 


Love. 


285 


“ Ay, ay, for them , Miss Emolyn ; but as for you — and 
this is the very jit of the whole matter I meant to speak 
to you about — you musn’t let any of them young - men 
run artery^, Miss Emolyn, and you must never, never 
think of marrying one on ’em !” solemnly concluded 
Mrs. Whitlock. 

Em. gazed at the speaker in downright consternation 
at the contingency she had conjured up. 

“Who, //” she exclaimed, “/ marry one of these ! 
Oh ! Mrs. Whitlock, how could you even imagine such 
a possibility ?” 

“ Well, there ! there ! don’t fly offen the handle ! I 
might have a-knowed you wouldn’t a took up long o’ 
none sich !” cried the old woman. 

“ Stop, Mrs. Whitlock ! Do not suppose that I am so 
vain and silly as to look down upon the worthy young 
companions of my sisters and brothers. How should I 
dare to do so ? But in this matter of marriage, aunty, 
pray, pray never mention it to me again. I shall never 
marry. That is fixed, and irrevocably fixed,’’ said Em., 
so gravely that her mentor replied : 

“ Well, honey, I think under your circumstances that 
is a good resolution, and I think as you will keep it ! — 
that is, unless things greatly change for the better, as I 
don’t see as they’re likely to do. Now I can go to sleep 
with an easy conscience,” concluded Mrs. Whitlock, as 
she tumbled into bed, turned her face to the wall, and 
died entirely dead for the next eight hours. 

Em. felt herself utterly alone. Every one in the 
house was fast asleep. The old woman in the room was 
temporarily annihilated. 

Em. was entirely alone. 

She returned to the bureau to examine her books — 
notably her book on astronomy ; interesting — most 
interesting to her, because it treated of the “starry 


286 


“ Em.” 


heavens ” to which Ronald Bruce had directed her 
studies. 

To see it better she lighted a second candle, and 
placed one on each side of the looking-glass. 

In doing this, she involuntarily raised her eyes, and 
caught another glimpse of the beautiful face and form 
reflected there, set off as it had never been before, by 
the pure white muslin dress and blue ribbons. 

Now Em. must have been more or less than human 
not to have seen, recognized and delighted in her own 
beauty ; yet, in true humility, she ascribed the effect to 
her dress, and breathed this girlish aspiration : 

“ Oh, if he could only see me now ! He thought me well- 
looking, I know he did, in my blue calico frock and white 
cotton sun-bonnet — how much better looking he would 
think me now ! — Oh, no,” she added, quite mal-apropos 
to her former words. “ Oh, no, Aunty Whitlock need 
not be afraid! I shall never marry one of them! I 
shall never marry any one at all,” she added, with a 
sigh. 

Then she opened her “ Elementary Astronomy,” and 
first looked at the illustrations, and then began and read 
until her candles burned out. Even after that she went 
and sat down at the uncurtained window and looked 
out. 

Below was the fetid lane ; opposite was a delapidated 
hovel, where, late as it was, a man and his wife were 
quarreling in their drink. 

Over all looked the “ starry heavens.” 

“ But, ah,” said Em., with a moan of pity, “ what right 
has one to look away from the sin and misery of the 
poor earth to those worlds of light ? We should rather 
look down on this poor earth and try to redeem it from 
sin and relieve it from misery ! Oh, if I were only rich, 
so I might give that man and his wife so much strong 


Changes. 


287 


coffee and strong beef soup that they should never long 
for liquor, and might repair their dwelling, and make it 
such a pretty home they would never feel like quar- 
reling in it.” 

It was a childish thought, and in some respects she 
was still a child. 

She sat by the window with her eyes fixed, not on the 
starry heavens, but on the poor hovel across the way, 
watching, fearing lest that drunken quarrel should 
terminate in some disaster — watching, fearing, praying, 
until at length the angry voices subsided, the light went 
out, and all was dark and silent. 

Then Em. with a sigh of relief, undressed in the dark- 
ness and went to bed, murmuring to herself : 

“ Ah, Ronald Bruce ! It is easy to see that you were 
born in affluence and raised in luxury, or you never 
would be able to look so far above the troubles of this 
world.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

CHANGES. 

“ She took up the burden of life again.” 

Whittier. 

With her festive dress, Em. put aside her daydreams 
and resumed her domestic duties. 

She became her mother’s most efficient help, taking 
her full share of the cooking, washing, ironing and 
scrubbing. 

John expostulated. 

“ The girl grows paler and thinner. She needs rest,” 
he urged. 

“ Yes, rest from so much reading. Hard work is the 


288 


“ Em. 


best sort of rest from that there/’ replied the practical 
Susan. 

“ That is true, dear father, hard work is the best 
thing for me,” added Em., who was trying in active 
employment to dispel her haunting dreams, that long 
indulgence had rendered painful. 

“ Well, well, my darling, I suppose you and your 
mother know best ; but I wish I was able to send you 
to the country, that is all,” said John with a sigh. 

“ I wish we were all able to go to the country, dear 
father, for I am sure I could not be happy to go there 
myself and leave you all in this striding lane. Oh, how 
beautiful the country must be, dear mother. I was 
down on Water street, you know, yesterday, to take 
home some washing, and I got a view of the country 
across the river. I saw the wooded hills and valleys on 
the other side. Oh, father, it looked like heaven to me. 
It was not like the city. It reminded me of that lovely 
hymn we sing in church sometimes : 

Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
Stand dressed in living green ; 

So to the Jews old Canaan stood, 

While Jordan rolled between.’ 

I never felt the beauty of that hymn so much as I did 
yesterday. Ah ! if we could only all of us live in the 
country, how happy we should be. Ah ! when I see a 
market-woman going home in her cart, with her vege- 
table and fruit baskets, some empty, some half full, 
piled up around her, ah ! how I wish I was up beside 
her, going home to the farm-house and garden, and 
orchard, and fields, and woods. Yet I know I should 
not be contented unless you were all there with me ! 
Oh, if we could only live in the country !” 

“ Child ! ” -said Susan Palmer, “ you wouldn’t believe 



SLOWLY AND SAFELY THE APPARITION DESCENDED. — See Page 349 , 



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. ' 1 





















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, 

.. 














Changes . 


289 


it maybe, but years ago, before you was born, your 
father had a splendid offer to go down South, and as 
overseer on to a plantation, and he wouldn’t take it.” 

“No,” said John, “the orkuppation didn’t suit me ; 
and, besides, I’d took a liking to this house, where I 
brought Susan home when we was first married, and 
where Jack and Jim and Nan and Jenny had been born, 
and I couldn’t bear to leave it. I felt like an oyster, 
child, and like the house was my shell ; and if I was 
forced out’n it I should die like a shucked oyster ! ” 

“ Yes, and it’s my belief, if the house was to catch a 
fire, John would stay in it and be a roasted oyster, 
sooner ’n he’d budge ! ” 

“ Dunno about that, ole ’oman,” said John, as he took 
up his hat and walked off to his work, for this conversa- 
tion had taken place at the breakfast -table. 

As the summer advanced, the season became very 
sickly. There was a long midsummer drought, and the 
drainage of the city, imperfect in the best and most 
favorable circumstances, became wholly inefficient for 
all purifying purposes. 

The cholera broke out in the most crowded, uncleanly 
and ill-ventilated portions of the city and spread from 
them to the suburbs. 

So sudden was the appearance of the scourge, so 
rapid and fatal its progress, that the greatest consterna- 
tion prevailed. 

All who could leave fled to the country. All public 
buildings were closed, except the hospitals and dis- 
pensaries ; all places of business shut up, except doc- 
tors’ offices and druggists’ shops ; all work suspended, 
except the undertakers.’ Physicians were hurrying 
from house to house, both night and day, scarcely ever 
taking time to go home for a regular meal, but drop- 


290 


“ Em. 


ping in at any convenient place for a short lunch, when 
the calls of appetite became exigent. 

Many families kept refreshment tables standing in 
their parlors for these same half-demented doctors. 

Many non-professional persons were “ conscripted ” 
into the medical service, and armed with a flask of 
brandy, a bottle of laudanum, a box of mustard and a 
box of calomel pills, with a few brief instructions to 
treat sudden cases of this plague. 

Among the busiest of these physicians’ aids-de-camp 
was John Palmer. Dr. Willet had fitted him out with 
medicines and instruction, that he might do the best he 
could in sudden cases, where no better help was to be 
had. John had been an attentive and intelligent pupil, 
and had followed the doctor’s directions in all cases, 
though, terrible to tell, at least nine-tenths of his pa- 
tients died. 

One day John’s master, the doctor, ran afoul of him 
in the lane. 

“ Here, Palmer, I was looking for you. Take this 
lancet. Bleed every one when first attacked. Take 
from a gill to three half pints of blood, according to the 
age and strength of the patient. Do you understand?’ ' 

“ Yes, sir,” said John. 

“Very well. Bleed every case ! Every case, mind ! 
For I have lost every case where I have not bled T 

Poor John thought he had discovered the cure for 
cholera then, certainly. He followed the doctor’s in- 
structions to the letter, though unfortunately with no 
better success than before he had heard and acted on 
them. 

Another day John ran up against the doctor on Water 
street. 

“ Hello, Palmer ! You are the very man I want to 
see. Have you got that lancet about you ?” 


Changes . 


291 


“ Yes, sir, I always carries it, to have it handy.” 

“ Did you obey my orders ?” 

“Oh, yes, sir.” 

“ With what result !” 

“ Every one on ’em died, sir, I’m sorry to say !” 

“ Give me that lancet ! Don’t you bleed another 
cholera patient for your life ! Every patient I have 
bled has died.”* 

Poor John looked not only “perplexed,” but “ in des- 
pair and scarcely less so was his master in medical 
science. 

All other cares in life seemed to have ceased except 
the one care to save the stricken. 

Very soon Susan Palmer and Ann Whitlock left the 
family to the sole charge of Em., and went out with John 
to nurse the sick. 

Night after night the poor girl stayed in the house 
alone with the three little children, Nellie, Molly and 
Vennie, as little Valencia was called for brevity. And 
she spent these nights often in prayer for the ill that 
they might recover, and for the well that they might be 
spared by the terrible scourge. 

At last the cholera reached the lane, where it found 
abundance of congenial food to feed upon. 

John and Susan Palmer, Ann Whitlock and old 
Monica, whose regular, temperate and cleanly habits 
saved them from the pestilence, were all, of necessity, 
drafted into the service of the sick in the lane ; but not- 
withstanding the best attention of these volunteer nurses, 
guided by the best skill of the attending physicians, ten 
to twelve cases proved fatal. 

* This was a true incident; and, indeed, those of my older 
readers who remember the first appearance of Asiatic cholera 
in our cities in 1833, well know that this picture of perplexed 
piedical skill is not overdrawn. 


292 


“ Em. 


Let us not linger over these dreadful scenes. 

The pestilence that had made its first appearance in 
the latter part of August, raged with all devouring fury 
through the whole of September, and only began to de- 
cline in October. Then, happily, its fall was as rapid as 
its rise had been. So that on the twentieth of that month 
the health statistics reported not one case of cholera in 
the city. 

Public buildings were re-opened ; shop-window shut- 
ters were taken down ; business recommenced ; work 
was resumed ; but, oh, the number of black dresses 
that appeared in all the places of worship on Sunday ! 

In Laundress Lane two-thirds of the poor houses 
were empty! The parents were gone to their long 
homes; the poor children were taken away by relatives, 
or consigned to orphan asylums. The w T hole aspect of 
the place was desolate and depressing, though cleaner 
than of yore. 

The memorable cholera summer was succeeded by 
a severely cold and hard winter. The short-lived busi- 
ness activity of the autumn was followed by a financial 
crisis, caused by the grasping dishonesty of some large 
capitalists, and causing a deep depression in trade that 
threw thousands out of employment. In the closing 
of large factories and work-shops the mechanics and 
laborers felt the pressure more heavily than others. It 
did indeed seem that famine would follow its brother, 
pestilence. 

John Palmer was one of the last to leave his work 
and then, even as the good habits of the family had 
saved them from illness in the time of cholera, so they 
saved them from want in the time of scarcity. They 
had always denied themselves enough to lay by a little 
“ for a rainy day.” 

Besides, their two dutiful elder sons, Sergeant Jack, 


of the Marine Corps, stationed at the Garrison, and Jim, 
the journeyman hatter, both being- unmarried, and both 
economical in their habits, were able and willing to help 
their parents. 

So John Palmer’s family did not suffer. 

At Christmas, notwithstanding the hard times, the 
two elder daughters were married. For in matrimonial 
matters among the working-classes there is seldom any 
“ postponement on account of weather,” whether atmos- 
pherical or financial. 

Nan went home with her young corporal to his quar- 
ters at the barracks, and Jenny went with her little 
machinist to live with his father and mother until a 
revival of business should enable them to go to house- 
keeping. 

John Palmer occupied his time with patching up his 
old house, which, from having lived in so long, he had 
come to regard as his own, though at the first of each 
month he paid the stipulated five dollars to his land- 
lord. 

The weary winter passed as the terrible summer had, 
and spring came with its resurrection unto life, not only 
of nature, but of active business. 

But what of our little heroine in all this time ? 

The preceding year of great trial for every one had 
been a severe discipline to her ; it had forced her to put 
away “ childish things,” girlish dreams, and devote her 
whole mind to the sternest realities of life. 

Yet now, as the beautiful spring revived all nature, it 
re-awakened all those vague dreams, aspirations and 
unsatisfied longings of the spirit which had so dis- 
turbed her peace. Her coarse surroundings, her rude 
associates wounded and shocked the refinement and 
delicacy of mind and body that seemed born in her. 
Her roughest works, however willingly undertaken and 


294 


“ Em. 


patiently performed, hurt her. Her rugged compan- 
ions, though loving and beloved, were so uncongenial in 
many ways, that there were moments when they seemed 
almost estranged from her. Her whole soul longed for 
a dwelling-place better than the wretched lane ; for 
companions more intellectual than any she could find 
there. 

“ Oh, if the country among hills and valleys, woods 
and fields, and with people like — like Ron — No ! She 
would not think such thoughts ! They were ungrateful ! 
They were wicked ! — Her dear, good father — her hard- 
working, self denying, affectionate father — was he not 
as worthy to be honored as the most refined and intel- 
lectual gentleman in the world ? And her gentle, patient 
mother ! Was she not as worthy to be loved as the 
finest and daintiest lady in the land ? And was not the 
old house their home, and the lane their neighborhood ? 
And oh ! was not she herself, their daughter, an un- 
natural and thankless monster to long for any other 
place, or any other persons ? She would do so no longer. 
She would love her parents loyally, and content herself 
with the dwelling-place that pleased them. 

This was certainly a good resolution ; but every one 
of any experience in life knows this for a certainty — 
that just as soon as we form a good resolution, Satan 
sends a great temptation to test it. 

One day in the “ merry month of May ” Em. had 
been down on Water street to take home some wash- 
ing. She had lingered to look on the distant view of the 
wooded hills across the river, now more beautiful than 
at any other season of the year. 

Gazing on them, she murmured the words of another 
favorite hymn — hymns were the only poems poetical 
Em. had ever read : 


^95 


Changes. 


“On Jordan’s banks I stand. 

And cast a wistful eye 
To Canaan’s fair and happy land, 

Where my possessions lie. 

“ There everlasting spring abides. 

And ever blooming flowers, 

Death, like a narrow sea divides 
This heavenly land from ours.” 

“ How like the hymn that is ! And oh ! how like 
heaven ! Shall I ever see the country, the beautiful 
country any nearer than I do now ? Or is that lovely 
vision across the river any real place at all ? Or is it 
only a beautiful illusion, a hallucination ? Ah ! if I 
could only go across the river and see ! But I could 
cross the river of death and get to heaven about as 
soon as I could get there,” she sighed, as she turned 
her back to the river, and, to make up for lost time, 
walked swiftly towards her home. 

Never looked the lane so narrow, so foul, so repel- 
lant, as when she turned into it. 

Old Monica sat at her cottage door, engaged in patch- 
ing meal-bags for a miller for whom she now worked. 

“ I tell you, Miss Em., if some fire aint done clensify 
this yer place, we’ll have de cullerrer agin this season,” 
she said, sniffing. 

“ I do not think anything would purify it but a wast- 
ing and destroying fire, Aunt Monica,” answered the 
girl despondently, as she hurried on toward her home. 

There a great surprise and a great temptation await- 
ed her. 

In the front room sat Mrs. Dr. Willet, with a news- 
paper in her hand, engaged in animated conversation 
with Susan Palmer. 


296 


“ Em. 


The lady had just finished speaking in a very ener- 
getic way, and the laundress was answering : 

“ Yes, we should miss her dreadfully ! I ralely don’t 
know what I should do without her ! And as for her 
father — well, there ! — I believe it would half break his 
heart. But still, if it was for the girl’s good ! Oh ! there 
she is now ! Let her decide for herself ! Come in, 
Em. ! Here is Mrs. Willet come to see you ! She has got 
some news for you !” 

“ Good morning, madame,” said the girl, respectfully 
greeting the lady as she entered the room. 

“ Mrs. Willet has been looking out for your interests, 
Em., and she’s got a splendid offer for you of a situa- 
tion out in the country, which you will be a big fool if 
you do not jump at, that’s all,” said Susan Palmer, sup- 
pressing any selfish objection she might have to the 
loss of Em.’s services. 

“ I thank you very much for thinking of me, madame,” 
said Em., bending her head. 

“Well, then, this is it, my dear girl,” said the lady, 
opening the newspaper, and reading : 

“ ‘ Wanted. — A young person as nursery-governess to a family 
of children from three to seven years of age. She must be a 
member of a church, and capable of teaching the rudiments of 
an English education. Apply by letter to Mrs. B. D. F.. Fair 
Banks, Fairfax County, Virginia, stating terms, and enclosing 
references.” 

“ Now, my dear child, you see by the date that this 
advertisement has been in for more than a month, 
though I never noticed it until to-day, and never should 
have noticed it at all had not my attention been called 
to it by a letter from Lieutenant Bruce, the nephew of 
j Commodore Bruce, an old friend of ours.” 


Changes . 


297 


As the lady spoke, Em. grew warm and cold, her 
color came and went, and she trembled so much that 
she had to sit down. 

Neither her mother nor their visitor noticed her emo- 
tion, however. 

“ Well, my dear,” continued the lady, “ this advertise- 
ment was put in by Mrs. Bernard Delaney Fanning, the 
elder sister of Lieutenant Bruce, with whom he happens 
to be spending his leave of absence. It seems that, after 
a month’s advertising, she has not found any one to suit 
her. She then applied to her brother for help. He 
wrote to me and requested me to seek you out and en- 
gage you for his sister, if it were possible. Now, my 
dear, I know you would just exactly suit the place and 
the place you. It is only to teach little bits of children 
to read and write and cipher, with perhaps a little ele- 
mentary geography, history and grammar. And you 
would have a beautiful home ! The house is lovely and 
the grounds a perfect paradise — sloping from the woods 
to the banks of the river. You could have no idea what 
a heavenly place it is, unless you could go there your- 
self.” 

“ Oh, yes, I can see it. I can see it in my mind’s eye !” 
breathed Em., involuntarily, with a deep sigh like an 
aspiration. 

“ I know you would like the place, and I am very sure 
that they would like you. You would be very happy 
there ; and, oh, Mrs. Palmer,” said the kind-hearted 
lady, turning in earnest appeal to the laundress, “ it 
would be such a great thing for your daughter !” 

“ I know it would. She must take it if her father will 
consent. I am sure I am thankful to you and Lieuten- 
ant Bruce, too, ma’am, for your kindness in thinking of 
my girl, to give her such a lift in life as that. And 
though I do say it, madame, which is her mother, Em. is 


298 


“ Em. 


worthy of the same, and will do credit to yours and the 
lieutenant’s recommendation.” 

“ I have no doubt of it. When shall I know your 
decision ?” inquired the lady, as she arose to take leave. 

“ Oh, dear ma’am, you may consider of it quite settled 
now. No sensible girl — and Em. is a sensible girl — could 
refuse such an offer. It’s only the mere formation of 
asking her father, and he’d consent if it was to take off 
his head, poor fellow, for Em.’s benefit.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

SACRIFICE. 

And can she now, renounce the boundless store 
Of beauty nature to her children yields — 

The verdant woodland, the bright river’s shore. 

The shade of grove, wild flower of the fields, 

All that the splendid sun of morning gilds. 

And all that echo to the songs of even, 

All that the mountain’s sheltering bosom shields, 

And all the high magnificence of heaven ? 

Beattie. 

After the departure of the lady, the laundress turned 
and looked at her daughter. 

Em. sat with her hands folded and her eyes fixed upon 
the floor in deep thought. 

Did she want to accept this tempting offer ? Did she 
understand all that it meant for her ? 

Ah ! yes, yes, she longed to avail herself of it ; she 
appreciated all the good it would bring her ; she felt it 
as a response to all those cravings for a better life of 


Sacrifice. 


299 


which she vaguely dreamed. She knew that it would 
give her all that she so ardently desired to possess — a 
refined home, intellectual companions, beautiful sur- 
roundings in natural scenery, space, liberty, independ- 
ence, that would enable her to buy books, to dress 
neatly every day. And then it would give her a chance 
of sometimes seeing — or hearing — Ronal — No ! she 
must not think of that. She would not think of that. 

“ Em. ! what's the matter with you ? Are you stupid ? 
You have heard all that has been done for you, and 
you have not opened your mouth !” exclaimed Susan 
Palmer, impatiently. 

“ I did thank the lady, dear mother, and most sin- 
cerely too,” answered the girl. 

“ Well, I know you did that, you couldn’t do no less, 
but you haven’t said whether you would like to go, or 
whether you wouldn't like to go, nor nothink ! And it 
keems to me’s if you didn’t understand ! Why, this is 
One of the very greatest lifts as ever was offered to a 
poor girl ! — to be a governess, don’t you hear ! In a rich 
^ouse, too ! where you wouldn’t be treated as a de- 
pendent, but as one o’ the family, and ’sociate long o’ 
ladies and gentlemen ! And to tell the holy truth, Em., 
if you are my own child, I think you might easy pass 
for a lady born, yourself,” concluded Mrs. Palmer, 
looking with pride upon her daughter. 

“ Mother, dear, it is only as nursery -govern ess that I 
am wanted, to teach little children who are too young 
for the school-room,” said Em., modestly. 

“ Still, being the children’s teacher, you would be 
treated like one o’ the family and ’sociate with ladies 
and gentlemen.” 

“ Yes, mother, I know.” 

“And do credit to yourself, and them too !" proudly 
exclaimed Mrs. Palmer. 




300 ' “ Em ." 


Em. blushed painfully and knew not what to reply. 

“Well, are you going to go, or are you nott ” de- 
manded Susan. 

“ Dear mother, let us hear what father has to say 
first.” 

“ Well, to be sure ! Of course, John Palmer is going 
to say that you shall go, if you want to go ! When did 
your poor father ever stand in his children’s light, I want 
to know ? But, there ! we’ll wait till he comes ! And 
when you go up stairs, you take out your white muslin 
dress, Em., for I must do it up rale scrimptious for you 
to carry away with you to wear of evenings, when they 
have company. And you must have two ginghams, a 
blue one and a laylock, one to wear every day. And 
you ought to have a black silk to go to church with the 
family o’ Sundays. And I think maybe your two 
brothers might club together and get you one. I must 
see about it,” concluded Susan Palmer, as she arose and 
went into the kitchen to prepare the midday dinner. 

Em. hung up her bonnet and sat down to a large bas- 
ket full of stockings that it was her task to darn. 

Oh, how the beautiful new life tempted her ! How it 
beckoned, and smiled, and coaxed her ! How it showed 
her the lovely country-house, with its background of 
dark and heavily wooded hills rising to the sky ! — with 
its foreground of green and flowery lawns and shady 
grounds sloping to the water’s edge ! — the broad river’s 
bank ! And within the house, elegant surroundings, re- 
fined associations, intellectual companions, free access 
to books, and time to read them, an open view of the 
whole blue empyrean by day and the starry heavens by 
night — the starry heavens of which Ron — Oh, no, no, 
no ! she must not let her thoughts run on him ! No, she 
must think only of her good father, of her dear mother ! 
Would they miss her much ? she asked herself. 


Sacrifice . 


301 


Ah, yes ! she felt that they would sorely miss her, 
would grieve after her, though they were so generous 
they would never let her know it. 

For had she not heard her mother say, as she came up 
to the house that morning : 

“ As for me, I don’t know what in the world I should 
ever do without her ; and as to her father, I do believe 
it would half break his heart. Still, if it is for the girl’s 
good — ” 

The entrance of Em. had arrested the words ; but 
surely she had heard enough to learn that her absence 
would be painfully felt by her parents. And she knew 
she must not seek her own happiness at the cost of pain 
to them. Still she had not the heroism to decide against 
herself without taking one chance — the chance that her 
father might appreciate all the good that must come to 
her in that offer, and so insist upon her accepting it. 

At noon John came home to his dinner, and when the 
family were gathered around the table Susan suddenly 
announced the good fortune that had been offered to 
Em. 

John stared for a minute in speechless astonishment. 

Mrs. Whitlock, who was present, clapped her hands 
together with a loud report, exclaiming triumphantly : 

“ There ! Now ! Didn't I always tell you so ? That 
girl was born to be a lady ! This is but the first step 
in the ladder, bless you ! When she gets among ladies 
and gentlemen, they will see as she’s naterally one of 
theirselves, and as purty and deliky as she is she may 
marry a fortin yet ! You hold up your head as high as 
the highest on ’em, honey, as you’ve got a right to !” 

“ Oh, aunty dear, please do not say such things about 
me !” said the girl. 

“ No — don’t be putting such nonsense in the child’s 


302 


“ Em. 


head! It might be the ruin of her,” added Susan 
Palmer. 

“ How far off is this same said Fair Banks ?” inquired 
John Palmer. 

“ About sixty miles down the river,” answered Susan. 

“ How do you get to it ?”, 

“ The doctor’s lady says by the steamboat. There 
ain’t no wharf, but they land by a rowboat.” 

“ Ooome,” said John. “ What does the child say her- 
self about going ?” 

“ She don’t say anything, because she don’t know 
what’s for her own good. But, John, I tell you if she 
don’t want to go, she ought to be made go !” exclaimed 
Susan. 

And thereupon she launched into an enthusiastic 
description of Fair Banks and the Fanning family, and 
all the great benefits that must accrue to their daughter 
from becoming a member of their household. 

“ Yes, it’s all werry fine,” said John, “ all werry fine ! 
Still, it’s a long way off, and hard to get at, and they are 
all strangers, and we don’t know nothing personal about 
them. Still, if my child hankers arter the place, why, I 
won’t be the man to prevent her taking of it, on trial, 
anyways. Ef she don’t -like it, or they don’t treat her 
well, or she gets home-sick, she can come back.” 

“ Now, John Palmer, you ought to know as our 
daughter ain’t one to put her hand to the plough and 
look backwards ! What she undertakes she is agoing 
through with ! Mind that ! She ain’t said nothing 
yet ; but when she does say anything, she’s agoing to 
stick to what she says, and carry out what she begins,” 
said Susan. 

“ When do they want her to go ?” inquired John. 

“ Oh, immediate. Mrs. Doctor says, just as soon as 
we can pack her off.” 


Sacrifice. 


303 


“ Well, Em., it is just as you say yourself, my girl. 
I have done the best I could, my child, and I’m willing 
to keep on doing for the sake o’ having you near me. 
And if it was in the city here, or near the city, I shouldn’t 
hes’tate one minute. I should be the first to tell you to 
go and better yourself. But as it is so far away, and so 
hard to get at, why I ralely can’t tell you to go, my 
girl ! I can’t ! I can only leave it to yourself to do as 
/you please. The land knows I have got little enough 
to give you, so I might as well give you your own way !” 

Em., who was watching her poor father closely, saw 
that the grey, stubble-bearded chin quivered, and the 
dim eyes filled with tears. She noticed, too, that his 
plate of pea-soup stood untasted before him, although 
it was a favorite dish. 

It was just as she had expected. The very idea of 
parting with her was enough to half break his poor, old, 
weak and tender heart. 

All wish to leave him for any other person, or any 
better life, suddenly, for the time being, fled from her 
mind. 

She arose from her seat and went around to him, drew 
his gray head down upon her bosom, pressed her soft 
cheek against his, and whispered : 

“ I will not go and leave you, father dear. There is 
nothing in this world worth leaving you for, for there 
is nothing in the world so good as home-love.” 

John put his arm around her, and drew her closer to 
him, as he looked around, and said : 

“ Now, that’s settled ! Rich people can buy a many 
things, but they can’t buy the poor man’s darter away 
from her daddy, can they, my lass ?” 

Never, father !” exclaimed Em., kissing his wrinkled 
brow. 


304 


“ Em. 


“ You stand in the girl’s light, you old fool, you !” 
angrily exclaimed Ann Whitlock. 

“ He don’t ! He don’t ! Nothing would tempt me to 
leave him now,” retorted Em. 

“And you everlasting a pretending as if you wished 
you was able to send her to the country, and now that 
there is such a splendid opportunity you won’t let her 
go. There’s consistency !” cried Susan. 

“ That was last year, when she was so much under 
the weather. I never meant that I wished her to go so 
far away as all this comes to, but only across the river. 
Besides, I do not hinder her from going now, if she 
wants to go.” 

“ But I do not want to leave you, father,” persisted 
Em. 

“ I know you don’t, my girl. And you sha’n’t leave 
me neither ; not so long as I’ve got an arm to work for 
you. And if so be there’s anything you want as you 
haven’t got, my girl, just you let me know what it is, 
and you shall have it, if I have to work ten times harder 
than ever to get it for you. You’re not to leave your 
old father. That’s settled once for all. And now I can 
eat my dinner in comfort and go back to my work with 
courage,” said John, as he fell upon his soup with a good 
appetite. 

Susan Palmer and Ann Whitlock would have con- 
tinued to contest the point, only they were hungry and 
their soup was cooling. And luckily before they satis- 
fied their voracious hunger John Palmer had finished 
his dinner, clapped on his hat and gone to his work. 

Not to leave her kind patroness in suspense, Em. put 
on her bonnet that afternoon and walked over to the 
doctor’s and told the lady of her decision, based upon 
her father’s objection to part with her for so long a 
time and distance, 


Sacrifice. 


305 


Mrs. Willet was very much disappointed, not to say- 
disgusted. 

“ I think Mr. Palmer is wrong, and very wrong. I 
hope he will reconsider his resolution. I shall keep 
the place open for you a week longer,” she said. 

“ I thank you, dear madame ; but I must beg that you 
will not do so. This decision is irrevocable. I could 
not leave my father now. He is old and worn — much 
more so than his age would warrant — because he has 
worked so hard for us all. I will never leave him,” 
gravely replied Em. 

“ My dear girl, you are pronouncing your own death- 
sentence. And worse than a death-sentence, since it 
is a death in life to which you doom yourself. You 
cannot be so blind, Emolyn, as not to see that you are 
by nature utterly unfitted for the place you fill. Every 
one who sees you sees that. Ronald Bruce saw it. Even 
Ronald Bruce ! Though I dare say he is just about as 
thoughtless as any other young man ! But he saw that 
much, and therefore he interested himself to get this 
position for you in his sister’s family. He will be very 
much disappointed to hear that you have rejected it,” 
said Mrs. Willet, with unmistakable regret. 

“ I thank — I am very sorry,” began Em., a little in- 
coherently ; but then her voice failed and she turned 
towards the window to hide the emotion she could not 
wholly suppress. 

“ Never mind, my dear girl ; do not distress yourself. 
Your motive was a good and commendable one, though 
somewhat overstrained,” said the lady, kindly. 

Em. struggled for self-control, and when she had suc- 
ceeded in attaining it, she turned to the doctor’s wife 
and said : 

“ I hope you know how much I thank you, madame, 
for the benevolent interest you have taken in me,” 


“ I know that you have a very grateful disposition, 
Emolyn, and that you would be rather apt to overrate 
.than underrate a service done or intended you ! But, 
in fact, it was to my young friend, Ronald Bruce, that 
^ou were indebted for this offer, which, by the way, 
pill do you no good at all, since you feel obliged to de- 
cline it.” 

Em., making a successful effort to steady her voice, 
then added : 

“ I hope, madame, that when you see, or write to — to 
Lieutenant Bruce, you will tell him how very grateful 
I am, and how grieved I feel that I cannot profit by his 
kind efforts in my behalf.” 

“Yes, certainly. I shall have to write and tell Mrs. 
Delaney Fanning of the ill success of my mission, and 
I will deliver your message by the same letter ; — 
though I doubt, after all, whether young Bruce will be 
at Fair Banks when my letter arrives.” 

“ Does he not spend the summer with his sister, then ?” 

This question broke involuntarily from the lips of 
Em., who blushed deeply the instant she had asked it. 

But the lady noticed nothing unusual either in the 
question or in the re-active effect it produced upon the 
questioner. She answered quietly : 

“ Oh, no, indeed! His leave was almost over when he 
went down there. It was a farewell visit, I presume. 
Pie expects to be ordered to the Mediterranean.” 

Em. then respectfully took leave of the doctor’s lady 
and came away. 

And, somehow, her sacrifice did not seem half so 
great, nor her disappointment half so deep, now that 
she knew Ronald Bruce was not to be at Fair Banks any 
longer. 

She walked rapidly home ; but just as she reached 
the entrance of the lane she was accosted by old Monica, 


Sacrifice . 


307 


who was seated, as was her custom of a summer even- 
ing, at the open door of the little red hut. 

“ Come in, Miss Em., and tell your ole Aunt Moniky 
all about it ! Here’s Missus Ann Whitlock been a 
’porting of it about as you has ’fused one of de finest 
offers as ever was made to a poor, young girl, to go for 
a nuss guberness in a rich lady’s fam’ly, where you’d be 
treated like a darter ob de house ! Now, Miss Em., I 
don’t tend for to beliebe all I hear, so you come and 
tell me de trufe ob it,” said the old creature, rising and 
leading the way into the hut. 

When they were both seated, Em. told her all about 
the offer of Mrs. Delaney Fanning, and the reason why 
it was refused. 

“ You was in de right ob it, Miss Em.! You was 
’tirely in de right ob it, not to go back on de poor ole 
father for any yethly wantage that could be offered to 
you. And you’ll get your ’ward, honey ! Mind, I tell 
you, you’ll get your ’ward ! Listen to me, Miss Em.! 
‘ I has been young, and now I’m ole,’ as de Psalmist 
says ! Yes, I’m ober seventy years ole, honey, and 
werry near my hebbenly home, praised be His name. 
Ober seventy year ole, honey, and wouldn’t be a day 
younger if I could ! ’Cause why should I ? I should be 
that much furder off from home. Lor', Miss Em.! 
Good young people like you pities poor ole people ! 
But, honey, you should ’joice ober us rather, ’cause we’s 
almos’ home ! But dat wa’n’t what I was gwine to say, 
Miss Em.! I was gwine to say dat in ober sebenty 
years’ experience ob life I nebber knowed a single case 
where a sakkerfise for duty wa’n’t richly ’warded in dis 
world ! not hab to wait for de nex’ world, honey, which 
do offen seem a long ’way off to young people in deir 
young days ; but in dis here world ! And now, mind 


3°8 


“ Em. 


what I tell you, Miss Em., your sakkerfise ’ll be ’warded 
in dis world, and ’fore long-, too. I feels it !” 

“ You are very kind and good to try to comfort me, 
dear Aunt Monica ; but indeed I do not desire any 
reward, as 1 could not have done otherwise than I did,” 
said Em., as she arose and bid the old creature good- 
night. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

REWARD. 

Hope springs eternal in the human breast. 

Pope. 

Em., in her self-devotion, certainly did not think that 
she had done any more than her plain duty, or that she 
deserved any special credit for it ; yet still, the words of 
the old negro woman cheered and comforted her like a 
prophecy of happiness. 

And from that day forth she went singing about her 
work as if no vision of a better fortune had broken upon 
her only to be withdrawn to leave her lot more gloomy 
than before. 

Susan Palmer and Ann Whitlock, however, could 
scarcely forgive either Em. or her father. 

“ You’ll never have another chance to make a lady of 
yourself !” would Mrs. Palmer declare, day after day, 
with tiresome repetition. 

“It was all John Palmer’s fault ! I shouldn’t a bit 
wonder if some judgment didn’t fall on that man for his 


Reward. 


309 


selfishness !” would be Ann Whitlock’s invariable com- 
ment. 

“ My dear father is the most unselfish man in the 
whole world, bless him !” would be Em.’s constant re- 
joinder. 

So their days went on in the usua2 routine, until one 
memorable night, near the last of May, when a calamity 
fell upon the house that almost seemed to fulfil Ann 
Whitlock’s sinister predictions. 

It was a beautifully clear, starlit night ; and all the 
family sat out in the back porch, which was but a rude 
shed over the door and window, with a rough, flag stone 
floor, all of which had been added to the house by John 
himself. 

Here the family sat on warm nights, because the rear 
of the house opening upon their well-kept yard was so 
much cleaner, sweeter and quieter than the front, which 
opened on the reeking, fetid, noisy lane. And here, 
therefore, on this night they sat and rested in the cool- 
ness and stillness, little thinking that this would be the 
last night they would spend in the dear, little old home. 

They remained there later than usual, so that it was 
ten o’clock when at length they retired to rest. 

As we observed before, they were all hard workers 
and heavy sleepers in that house, so that by half past 
ten every one was in the “land of Nod even Em., who 
was always the last to fall asleep. 

She had slept soundly for several hours, and it was 
long after midnight and near daybreak, when she was 
rudely aroused by a loud banging and shouting at the 
front door, mingled with ear-piercing shrieks of: 

“FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!” 

All now seemed to pass in an instant. 

She sprang out of bed and threw open her window- 
shutters, to see the whole lane illuminated by a red 


3 IQ 


“ Em. 


glare, and a crowd of people gathered before her own 
house, and to hear the front door fall in with a crash 
under the blows of the men that were beating at it, and 
the voice of her father crying out : 

“ What in the name of heaven is the matter ? ” 

“ FIRE, man ! Can’t you see for yourself ? ” shouted 
a score of voices. 

Indeed, John had seen for himself in the very instant 
that he had spoken, and he had sprung back into the 
house to the rescue of his family, even before his ques- 
tion had been answered. 

“ FIRE ! FIRE ! FIRE ! ” roared the crowd. 

“Save life ! You can’t save anything else ! ” cried 
many voices, as the crowd poured into the burning 
building. 

“ FIRE ! FIRE ! FIRE ! ” bellowed the fast gather- 
ing multitude, making “ confusion worse confounded,” 
as the distant rattle of the approaching engines was 
heard. 

Meanwhile Em., half suffocated with smoke and heat, 
tried to rouse the heavy sleeper who shared her bed, 
and who slept through all this noise and confusion all 
the more heavily now because of the gas that sealed up 
her senses. 

All Em.’s shakings and shoutings proved ineffectual 
to awaken her, and there was not another minute’s time 
to be lost, for the sparks were already falling down from 
a fissure in the blazing roof upon the wooden floor of 
the chamber. 

So Em. seized a pitcher full of water from the wash- 
stand near, and threw its contents into the face of the 
sleeper, who immediately sprang up, startled, confused, 
terrified, strangling, sputtering, and exclaiming : 

“ Who did that there ? Ef I do get at yer, whoever 
yer are, I'll let yer know — Oh ! oh ! my Lord in 


Reward. 


3 " 


heaven, what has happened — is the house afire ?” she 
suddenly cried out in the midst of her scolding, as 
smoke, heat and sparks revealed the calamity. 

“ Yes, the house is on fire ! Escape for your life, 
while I save the children !” cried Em., flying into the 
next room where the two boys slept. 

But there she was met by her father, who hurriedly 
exclaimed : 

“ Come ! come quickly, my child !” 

“Aunty ! Aunty Whitlock !” cried Em., looking back 
into the burning room where through smoke and flame, 
she saw the old woman pushing her bedding through 
the open window. 

“Aunty! Aunty Whitlock! You’ll be burned to 
death, if you don’t hurry !” cried Em., in the extremity 
of distress. 

“ I won’t hurry until I have saved my property ! A 
body might’s well be dead as have nothink to live on !” 
screamed the old woman, who was pushing out her 
trunk after her bedding through the window, while 
sparks and brands fell thick from the burning roof 
overhead. 

“ Oh, Heaven ! what’s to be done !” cried Em., clasp- 
ing her hands. 

“ She deserves to be left to her fate ! for a foolhardy 
idiot ! thinking more of her pelf than she does of her- 
self ! But ‘ sich is life !’ ” exclaimed John, as he rushed 
back into the burning room, caught a blanket from the 
floor, threw it over the head of the obstinate old woman, 
seized her in his strong arms and bore her struggling 
through the smoke and shower of sparks out from the 
room ; and not too soon, for the very next moment a 
part of the blazing roof fell in, filling the chamber with 
flame. 

Hurrying his little daughter down before him, John 


12 


Em.” 


bore the big body of Ann Whitlock out of the house and 
dropped it on the sidewalk, almost falling over it as he 
did so, for his strength was quite spent. 

Not so Ann Whitlock’s ! 

She started up in a towering passion, shaking her fist 
at her deliverer, and exclaiming : 

“ You’ve ’vented of me from saving all my property, 
you grand vilyun, you ! There’s a good straw mattress 
as ever was made gone to destruction along o’ your 
doings ! You laid wiolunt hands on me just as I was 
asaving of it, you black-hearted brute ! I’ll have you 
prosecuted for ’salting and buttering me, you owdacious 
scowndul !” 

“ I purty nearly broke my back in bearing her out’n 
the burning house, and I give myself a straining as I 
shall never get over, mayhap, and this is the thanks I 
get for it But ‘ sich is life,’ ” said John meekly. 

At this moment the roof and walls of the house fell in, 
and a tremendous outburst of flames roared up into the 
night sky. 

With an involuntary cry of horror, every one recoiled 
from the conflagration. 

The fire engine, that just at this instant arrived and 
was placed in position, began to play upon the flames. 

The perfect uselessness of the effort at this late stage 
of the affair, provoked a peal of laughter from the 
crowd. 

But the engine put out the last of the fire, which 
would soon have gone out of itself for the want of fuel, 
and then it turned and rattled away from the lane, fol- 
lowed by all the crowd, and leaving the houseless family, 
in solitude and darkness, standing over the ruins of their 
home. 

“ Well, John, we ought to fall on our knees and thank 
the Lord that all our lives are saved!” said Susan Palmer, 


Reward. 


with emotion, as she hugged her two youngest children 
closely to her side. 

“My heart has thanked Him all along,” reverently 
replied the man. 

“And I forgive you, John Palmer ! I forgive you 
from the bottom of my heart, for all your treatment of 
me this night,” said Mrs. Whitlock, solemnly. 

“ To think,” said Susan, “ that not more than a half 
hour ago we were all sleeping quietly in our beds, think- 
ing of no danger, while the house was burning over 
our heads, and we might all have perished in the 
flames, if some late passer-by hadn’t seen the fire and 
give the alarm. I wonder who first discovered the fire, 
John.” 

“ I don’t know. We may find out when it’s day, 
maybe.” 

“ And, oh ! I wonder how the fire ever did occur, and 
we so careful, too.” 

“ 1 don’t know that either, and I don’t suppose any- 
body ever will know,” said John, with a sigh. 

“ Oh ! to think, that half an hour ago we were all 
sleeping snugly in our own beds in our own little home 
where we have lived so long, and now we are standing 
out here in the night air, without so much as a roof to 
cover us !” sighed Susan. 

“ ‘ Sich is life,’ ” said John. “ And thankful we should 
be as we live !” 

“ Chillun,” said a voice that had not spoken until now, 
the speaker being still hidden in obscurity, “ chillun, 
don’t stand out here in the night air. Watching that 
smouldering heap won’t rise the house again out’n the 
ashes. Come home long o’ me, and stop till you can 
turn round and see what you’re gwine to do. It’s most 
day now. Come home long o’ me and I’ll get you a bit 
’o breakfast.” 


“ hm. 


3H 


“ I thank you, Aunt Monica. Indeed, it is the best 
thing we can do for the present,” said Susan Palmer, 
speaking for the whole party, as she drew the two 
youngest of her children after her, and walked on 
toward the red brick hut. 

John raised the little adopted child, Vennie, in his 
arms, and followed. 

Em. and the other children brought up the rear, and 
so the sad little procession walked on to Aunt Monica’s 
house, which the old woman hastened to make hospita- 
ble and pleasant by opening all the doors and windows 
and lighting two tallow candles. 

The houseless family were but half clothed. John 
and the two boys had nothing on but their shirts and 
trousers. Susan Palmer and Em. had each only under- 
clothes and a large shawl. The little children were in 
their night-gowns. But it was a clear, warm, summer 
night, or, rather, morning, and so they could not suffer 
from scantiness of their raiment. 

“ Set down, chillun, and make yourself to home. 
’Tain’t a very spacious mansion ; but it is big enough, 
and, if it wa’n’t, I beliebe the Lord would make it big 
enough, same as He made de loabs and fishes last out 
to feed de whole multitude, and the widow’s cruse of 
oil and bag o’ meal hold out to nourish de prophet. 
Set down, chillun, and ’sider de house as your own, and 
me as your faithful ole sarvint a-getting breakfas’ for 
you all,” said Aunt Monica. 

John and Susan thanked her ; but Em. went up to 
her side, and took the old, withered hand, and pressed 
it to her lips, with as much respect, or more, than she 
would have kissed the hand of a queen, for to her fine 
apprehension there was a delicacy as well as depth of 
feeling in this poor, untutored colored woman that she 
had seldom found in the rich and cultivated ; and let it 


Reward. 


3*5 


be remembered that the avocations of the laundress's 
daughter brought her often in communication with the 
“ better classes.” 

The burned-out family found seats — John and Susan 
in the two chip-bottomed chairs ; Em. and the children 
on the side of the clean bed in the corner ; the two boys 
on the two three-legged stools. 

Old Monica busied herself with kindling the fire and 
getting breakfast, addressing cheering words to her 
guests from time to time ; but now that the high excite- 
ment was all over, the unfortunate family found time to 
appreciate their situation, and sat almost entirely silent 
and motionless, as if half-stunned and paralyzed under 
the burden of their calamity. 

This lasted until suddenly Em. said : 

“ Why, where is Aunty Whitlock ?” 

“ Sure enough, where is the poor woman ?” uneasily 
inquired John. 

“ Oh, you may depend she is down at the house, rak- 
ing among the cinders to see if she can find anything 
worth saving !” said Susan. 

“ I think she is there, watching her personal effects, 
that she saved with so much risk to her life,” suggested 
Em. 

“ That’s it !” said John, suddenly rising from his 
seat. “ Come, boys, let us go down and help the old 
woman to bring up her things. You’ll find room 
enough for them in your back yard, won’t you, aunty ?” 

“ Better’n that, honey ! I’ll find room ’nough for ’em 
in my loff’,” answered old Monica, pointing to a little 
ladder in the corner of her room, that led up through a 
trap- door into a confined space under the sloping roof. 

As soon as John and the two boys had left the house, 
old Monica locked the door after them and dragged a 


3*6 


“ Em; 


big- chest from under the table out into the middle of 
the floor, and said : 

“ Here, chillun. Here’s lots o’ good clothes as I 
never had on my back, and never will ; which some of 
’em was give to me by my ole missus, Mrs. Capting 
Wyndeworth, and likewise by Madame Malwiny Warde, 
and even my dear Miss Emolyn, gone to glory. Lor,’ 
chillun, dey nebber would a fit me, nor likewise suited 
me in de best o’ days, and I’m sure dey wouldn’t now. 
Here, Miss Em., here’s a blue gingham dress, which 
was my precious Miss Emolyn ’s. I know it will fit you 
to a tee. And here, Miss Palmer ; here’s a pink calico 
as I think’ll fit you, dough it may be a bit too big in the 
waist ; but you can draw it in. Now, chillun, fix your- 
selves up agin the men-folks come back to deir break- 
fas’,” concluded Monica, leaving her precious chest 
open, and making her guests free of its contents. 

“ I do not like to take so many favors from the old 
woman,” whispered Susan. 

“ Oh, mother, do ! Don’t you see how it delights her 
to help us ?” replied Em., who was a much finer discerner 
of spirits than the matron. 

“ Well, I s’pose we shall have to be obleeged to her, 
anyhow, because we can’t go outside the door in our pet- 
ticoats,” sighed Susan, as she dressed herself in the fresh 
pink calico gown. 

Em. followed her example. 

And then old Monica, regretting that she had no clothes 
to fit the children or their father, closed her chest and 
put it away. 

Next she provided fresh water and clean towels, that 
they might all bathe their faces and hands. 

By the time they were made comfortable, John and 
the two boys arrived, bringing in tow Mrs. Ann Whit- 
ock and all her belongings, which latter were piled out- 


Rnvard. 


3i7 


side the hut until they could be conveniently brought 
in to be stowed away. 

“ There’s more saved from the fire than we had any 
idea of, Susan, my dear,” said John Palmer, as he entered 
the hut. “ Seems like while I was getting of you all out 
of the front way, the crowd that followed me in the 
house hev lots of things out’11 the back windows, and 
dragged ’em off to a safe distance behind.” 

“Oh, John, I am so thankful ! What is saved ?” in- 
quired Susan. 

“ Oh, lots of things — bedding, and cooking utensils, 
and clothing. Them’s the most important, I reckon !” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed.” 

“ Well, and the neighbors are kind enough ! What 
do you think I found ’em all doing down there ?” 

“ Why, what, John ?” 

“Why, though it was hardly daylight when I got 
there, I found the neighbor-men, even them as we 
thought the worst on, Susan, all working as hard as they 
could a-getting together what was left of our truck, and 
conveying it to the best of them three vacant houses 
over the way. And there was a lot of neighbor-women 
with brooms, and pails, and floor-cloths, a-washing and 
cleaning up the house to make it comfortable for us ! 
You see, now, Susan, people may have their faults, but 
they may have good hearts at the bottom all the time!” 

“ Bless them !” exclaimed Susan. “ Oh, what a help!” 

Em. said nothing, but her face shone as the face of an 
angel ! It was such delight to her to hear good things 
of her neighbors. 

“So I don’t see,” said John, “why we mightn’t go 
right in. The house is not as good as the one we left, 
but it is the next best in the lane ; and when I get you 
all fixed, I’ll go and see the landlord and arrange with 
him for the rent. It looks like doing things hind part 


foremost to move into a vacant house before renting it; 
but in case of fire, one hasn’t much choice ; besides, Sim- 
son, next door, had the key, and the landlord knows me, 
and so I suppose it is all right.” 

“ In course it is, Mr. Palmer, and glad enough he’ll be 
of a good tenant like you. And now, chillun, come and 
eat your breakfas’ before the corn-cakes get cole,” said 
Aunt Monica. 

The house-wrecked family gathered around her hos- 
pitable board, and ate as hearty a meal as if they had 
been seated at their own familiar table. 

After breakfast they went into their new residence, 
accompanied by old Monica, who lent a willing and able 
hand towards helping to settle them. 

In the course of the same day much help arrived from 
John’s employer and Susan’s customers, so that the con- 
dition of the family was much improved. 

And before the end of June something happened 
which totally revolutionized their lives, and bade fair to 
realize, to the utmost, the old Christian woman’s faith- 
ful previsions of prosperity and happiness. 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

a summer’s flitting. 

Where rose the mountains, there to her were friends; 
Where rolled the river, thereby was her home ; 

Where a blue sky and glowing clime extends, 

She had the passion and the power to roam. 

The cavern, forest, ravine, torrent’s foam 
Were unto her companionship ; they spake 

A mutual language, clearer than the tone 

Of her land’s tongue, which she would oft forsake 
For Nature’s pages glazed by sunbeams on the lake. 

Byron. 

On the first of June the public works at the arsenal 
were suddenly stopped for want of funds to pay the 
workmen. Some hundred men were thrown out of 
employment for an indefinite time, for the works could 
not be resumed until an appropriation should be made, 
and that could not be done before Congress should meet 
in the ensuing winter. 

John Palmer found himself out of his old workshop 
as well as out of his old house. All this was for the 
very best, so far as he was concerned. These seeming 
calamities prepared him for a fortunate change, which 
nothing short of them could have compelled him to 
make. 

[319] 


320 


“ Em. 


John was an oyster, as I have several times had occa- 
sion to remark ; his house was his shell, and he would 
have grown old and died in it if he had not been roasted 
out. And so, also, he would have worked on at the 
arsenal as long as his strength should have held out, had 
ilot the shops been closed. 

Now that all his habits were forcibly broken up by 
fate he was ready for any change, never presuming to 
hope one for the better. 

But that change came unexpectedly, as all good or 
evil fortune does come. 

It was one morning early in June, Susan Palmer was, 
as usual, in the back yard, “in the suds.” Em. was in 
the kitchen washing up the dishes ; the children were 
all at the public school, and John was “ standing 
around,” with the aimless, disconsolate air of an indus- 
trious man out of work, when his daughter spoke cheer- 
fully to encourage him : 

“ Father, look on the bright side ! think better of this 
being out of work for a few weeks — ” 

“It will be months, girl, it will be months !” inter- 
rupted John, with a heavy sigh. 

“ Well, then, months ! Suppose it should be months. 
Why should you care ? You have earned this rest, 
father, earned it well, and you need it, too ! need it 
sorely ! I have never known you to have a rest as far 
back as I can remember. And the only time I ever 
knew you to be out of work was the cholera summer, 
when you toiled harder than you ever did before, nurs- 
ing the sick. Now, father, accept this forced rest as a 
boon,” concluded Em., as she filled and lighted his pipe 
and handed it to him. 

“ Yes,” answered John, “ it is all very well for me to 
sit down and smoke at my ease ; but what is to become 
of you, and your mother, and the children ?” 


A Summer s Flitting. 


3 21 


Em. laughed : 

“ Why, you dear old darling, mother has always taken 
care of herself and half the household besides ; and as 
for me, I am now going to put my shoulder to the wheel, 
and take care of the other half !” 

“ What do you mean, girl ?” 

“ Oh, I mean I am going out to service ! Mrs. Willet 
has been wanting me ever so long to come to her as 
nurse and seamstress, and now I am going. I have 
such a good stock of clothes that I shall not need to buy 
any for a year, and every cent of my earnings shall go 
to help keep the family," said Em., brightly. 

John Palmer stared at her for a moment in silence, 
then took the pipe out of his mouth and replied : 

“ Indeed you shall not do that, Em. No ! I never 
was over-anxious for any o’ my darters to go out to ser- 
vice in other people's houses ; but Mary Ann and Jane 
Eliza was so strong and hearty, besides being bent on 
going to yearn their own bread, that I consented. But 
as to you, Em., no ! you’re too delicate ! Don’t you let 
me hear nothing more about it !’’ 

“ But, father—” 

“ Don’t ‘ but ’ me, Em. ! I tell you I won’t have it ! I 
reckon I can break stones on the avenue, if I can’t do 
anything else ; and I’ll do that sooner’n I’ll let you go 
out to service ! So there, now !” 

The conversation was interrupted by a knock at the 
front door. 

Em. quickly pulled down her sleeves and threw off 
her work apron and went to open it. 

The visitor was Mrs Willet. 

“ Oh, madame, you wish to see my mother ? Please 
walk in. Take a seat,” said the girl, placing a chair. 

“ Well, child, I do wish to see your mother, and also 
your father and yourself ; for you are all concerned in 


$22 


“Em. 


the object of my visit,” said the kind-hearted lady, as 
she, smiling, took the offered seat. 

John Palmer, who had heard all that had passed, 
signed to Em. that he would notify his wife of the visit ; 
a,nd so, even before Em. could reply, the worthy couple 
entered the room and respectfully saluted the lady. 

“ I have heard that you are out of work, and likely to 
be so for a long time to come, Palmer ; so I called this 
morning to make a proposition to you,” began Mrs. 
Wiilet. 

“ Thank you, madame, for your kindness ; but I think 
I know what it is. Em.’s going into service ; but I 
can’t consent to it, ma’am. I can’t let her go, ma’am, 
and no offence, I hope,” said John. 

“None in the world. I think you are quite right. 
But it is not about your daughter especially that I wish 
to speak to-day. My proposal concerns your whole 
family. In brief, it is this : Dr. Wiilet is on the look-out 
for a suitable family to take charge of a manor-house in 
Alleghany county, Virginia.” 

John looked surprised, and was about to speak, when 
the lady laughingly interrupted him with : 

“ Now, don’t say a word, Palmer, until you have 
heard all I have got to say. This manor-house was the 
seat of a very old family of Welsh descent. The last 
owner died during his sojourn in Europe. The heir 
wants a trustworthy family to live in a part of the old 
house and take care of the whole of it. The duty of 
the man would be to look after the work of the home 
grounds, under the agent. The duty of the woman 
would be to look after the women of the plantation in 
times of sickness — to see that they have proper food, 
medicine and attendance ; also to air and warm the 
house at intervals, to keep it and its handsome furniture 
from injury by dampness or mould.” 


A Summer s Flitting. 


323 


Here Susan’s lips opened, but Mrs. Willet good- 
humoredly stopped her by saying : 

“ Now, just wait until I have done ! I have told you 
first the duties that will be required of you, now I will 
tell you of the compensation for these duties. First, 
Palmer, you will receive an income of six hundred dol- 
lars a year, paid quarterly ; next, house-room to accom- 
modate all your family ; next, the use of a horse and 
covered cart for yourself, the use of all the milk you 
want from the dairy, all the vegetables from the garden, 
all the fruit from the orchard, and all the flour and 
meal from the granaries, and the meat from the store- 
house, that you may require for your household con- 
sumption. Of course, there are some little minor 
duties, as well as some little minor advantages, too tri- 
fling to be considered here, but which you will find out, 
all in good time.” 

Here Em. was about to speak, but Mrs. Willet held 
up a finger to silence her, and continued : 

“ One of the greatest attractions of the place is its 
extreme salubrity. It is situated among the loftiest 
ridges of the Alleghany Mountains, and the air is so 
pure, that meat hung out in the sun will dry up instead 
of decomposing. It is certain that people there live to 
a great age.” 

Here all three, father, mother and daughter, opened 
their mouths to speak, but were once more stopped by 
Mrs. Willet, who held up her hand and said : 

“ Indeed you must hear me quite out, before replying ; 
for now there is one great disadvantage about the situ- 
ation of which I must, in common justice, warn you. 
It is its utter desolation and solitude. There are no 
neighbors within reach. The nearest house is ten 
miles off. The nearest town is a hundred, the nearest 
village is thirty. You would have to live alone with 


324 


“ Em. 


yourselves, you would have no other society, you would 
have to send thirty miles to post a letter, or else never 
write one. You would have to send your children thirty 
miles to school, or else to keep them at home ; and 
finally, you would have to send just as far for a doctor 
if you were sick, or else to do without one. There, now, 
I have placed the whole case before you. And now I 
am ready to hear what you have to say about it,” con- 
cluded Mrs. Willet, folding her hands and reclining 
back in her chair. 

“ We thank you very much, ma’am, for your constant 
kindness to us,” said John, with much feeling. 

“ Yes, which is much more than we deserve, consider- 
ing how we slighted your last kind efforts for us, 
ma’am,” added Susan. 

“ But we are indeed very grateful for all, Mrs. 
Willett,” said Em., softly. 

“ Well, well, but what do' you say to the present 
proposition ?” inquired the lady. 

“ It’s a great temptation to a poor man in my position, 
ma’am,” said John, reflectively — “ a very great temp- 
tation.” 

“ ‘ Temptation !’ ” echoed Susan — “ ‘ Temptation !’ 
You speak as if Old Nick had offered it instead of a 
Christian lady ! A providence, I call it, John !” 

“ Oh, father, let us accept it thankfully! let us go, dear 
father, it will be so delightful ! Oh, it will be like 
going to heaven !” pleaded Em., with a sigh of deep 
aspiration, as she clasped her hands and raised her blue 
eyes to John’s face. 

“ My child, your wish would rule me more than any- 
thing else, except your welfare. If the two can be 
made one, then you will have your way. We must 
take a little time to think it over, however. Madame,” 


A Summer s Flitting. 


3 2 5 


he said, turning to Mrs. Willet, “ will you give us until 
to-morrow to make up our minds ?” 

“ Why, certainly, Palmer, I could hardly expect you 
to give an answer so soon. Will you come to the 
doctor’s office in the morning and let him know your 
decision ?” 

“ Yes, madame ; thank you.” 

“ Ma’am, you needn’t wait until to-morrow to let that 
agent gentleman know that we’ll take the place and 
thank you. I’ve quite made up my mind and, what’s 
more to the purpose, Em.’s made up hers. It’s only 
a matter of form, waitin’ for John. He’ll be sure to 
accept,” said Susan, eagerly, for she was evidently 
very anxious to secure the situation. 

“ Yes, my good woman, I hear what you say ; but 
still I think we had best not write to the agent until we 
have heard your husband’s final decision ; for I remem- 
ber you wbre equally confident about his consent that 
his daughter should take the place offered her by Mrs. 
Fanning. Yet you know he would not permit her to do 
so,” said the lady, laughingly, as she took leave. 

“ Now, John Palmer, I do think as you are flying right 
in the face' of Providence, holding off until to-morrow 
before you make sure of that place. Somebody else 
may apply and get it this very night ! Oh, my very 
heart feels ready to burst when I think of it !” exclaimed 
Susan Palmer, anxiously, as soon as the lady had left 
the house. 

“ Oh, don’t you be afraid ! Mrs. Willet will be sure 
to keep it for us until to-morrow,” said John, soothingly. 

“ But are you agwine to accept it to-morrow ? that’s 
what I’m a-dying to know !” cried Susan. 

“ Well, yes, I suppose so,” thoughtfully replied John. 

“ Well, then, why in the world couldn’t you have told 
the lady so to-day?” 


“ Because it was so sudden, and I thought as we had 
better sleep on it first.” 

“ Sleep on it ? Sleep on thorns, and thistles, and 
briers, and nettles, you mean ! That’s what 1 shall 
sleep on, thinking all night as something will happen 
along of your delays to knock us all out of our good 
fortune. Now, I’d like to ask you if there’s any objec- 
tion as the greatest grumbler in the world could find to 
such a splendid place, that you should need a minute to 
think whether you would like to take it or not !” said 
Susan, impatiently. 

“ Well, no, my dear, there certainly is not, except what 
the lady herself owned up to, its being so lonesome.” 

“What company do we want except ourselves and 
the colored people, which is always gay company, and 
the dumb creeturs in the farm-yard and stables, which 
is always good company ?” 

“ Well, none, my dear, to be sure.” 

“ Now, then, what else is to be thought of ?” 

“ Why, its being so far from town in case anybody 
was sick, you know.” 

“ Fiddle-de-dee ! We never had a spell of sickness in 
all our lives, John. And, besides, they say that place 
is uncommon healthy ; and can’t we take a physic- 
box and a Family Guide with us ?” 

“ Well, my dear, I think as you are right. I reckon 
as I will give the lady her answer that we’ll take the 
place. Only it is always better to think over a move 
before making it,” replied John. 

The talk did not end there, however, but was con- 
tinued all that day and half that night, and resumed 
early the next morning, and carried on until John 
dressed himself in his Sunday clothes and went off to 
give Mrs. Willet her answer. 

The contract was made and signed the same morning. 


A Summer s Flitting. 


327 


Dr. Willet obtained a quarter’s wages in advance for 
John, to enable him to pay the expenses of his removal. 
The family were to travel by wagon, as old-time emi- 
grants were wont to move. And he meant to take his 
few old household goods that had been saved from the 
fire. It is true, as Susan urged, they were not worth 
moving, but then they had belonged to his mother, and 
John could not sell or give them away. 

They sold, however, all the new furniture that had 
been given them to replace that which was lost by fire. 
And with the little sum they realized from the sale, 
added to that which was advanced by the agent, John 
bought a large, substantial, covered wagon and a span 
of strong draught horses with which to make their 
journey into Virginia. 

“ You see, Susan,” he explained, “ it would cost us 
just as much to go by stage-coach, because there’s so 
many on us, let alone that we should have to travel the 
last thirty miles by wagon, any way. So by this plan 
we go more comfortable and private and independent, 
and without loss, because at the end of the journey we 
have our wagon and horses left.” 

Susan agreed with him that it was altogether the 
best plan. 

As soon as the wagon arrived it was packed so judi- 
ciously that there was a plenty of room for what John 
called his live stock — that is to say, John, Susan, Em., 
Tom, Ned, Molly and Nelly ; these were the family 
proper ; besides these were their dependents — the little 
Italian, Vennie, Ann Whitlock, and old Monica ; both 
of the two last-mentioned having sold off all their house- 
hold goods and chattels to cast in their lot with the 
Palmers. 

“ We shall find some way to yearn our livin’, once we 
are there,” said Ann Whitlock. 


3 2 8 


“ Em. 


“ Yes, honey," replied old Monica, “ for healthy as de 
place is, I reckon dere’s young chillun born dere as well 
as oder places, and has to be took care of ; so dere’s 
work to begin wid, as you and I is both good for." 

John was for a moment aghast -t these two heavy 
additions to his burdens ; but, looking on the best side 
with his habitual benevolence, he decided that this was 
an event to be rejoiced over, since it would afford them 
more company on the long journey, and make their 
retreat in the wilderness less lonesome. 

It was just at sunrise, a clear bright Monday morn- 
ing, early in June, that they all entered the wagon, 
John driving, and started on their way to Virginia. 

A shower of good wishes and old shoes were sent 
after them by their neighbors in the lane. They 
replied with smiles and thanks ; but did not look back ; 
to do so, they thought, would not be lucky. 

They crossed the river by the long bridge, and began 
to ascend the road leading through the woods on the 
other side. 

There Em. proposed that all should get out and walk, 
for it was yet early in the morning, the air was cool, and 
the woods were shady and delicious. 

John acknowledged that the load was rather a heavy 
one for two beasts, so he helped his “live stock" to 
alight, and they walked on, John leading the horses. 

“ Well, Em., now you are across the river and in the 
country, and going further into it, what do you think of 
it ?" inquired Palmer. 

“ Oh, I feel as if I were in Paradise, and on my way 
to heaven," replied the grateful girl, every sense on the 
qui vive to enjoy the dewy greenness of the woods, the 
perfume of the sweet brier and wild honeysuckle and 
countless ground flowers, and the melody of innumer- 


A Summer s Flitting , ; 


329 


able birds that at this early hour filled the forest with 
their songs. 

The whole party walked on, while John led the horses. 
It was so much pleasanter to walk than to ride through 
those delightful woods. 

They traveled leisurely on account of the heavy load 
and the long journey. So by noon they had made but 
fifteen miles’ progress, when they came to a good halt- 
ing-place in a small, shady opening of the forest. 

Here they stopped to rest for an hour, during which 
John unloosed the horses and set them free to nibble the 
grass from the glade, and drink water from the branch 
that flowed through it. 

The boys collected sticks and made a fire on the 
ground ; Em. took the tea-kettle from the wagon and 
filled it from the spring, and hung it over the blaze from 
an impromptu crane arranged by the boys ; Susan 
Palmer fried eggs and rashers of bacon ; the little girls 
“ set the table ” by spreading a white cloth and arrang- 
ing crockery and cutlery on the grass, while Ann 
Whitlock and Aunt Monica, being old, were allowed to 
sit down and rest until dinner was ready. 

At one o’clock, rested and refreshed, and having 
everything that they had used washed and repacked, 
they resumed their journey. 

Susan Palmer, Ann Whitlock, and old Monica took 
seats in the wagon ; John walked and led the horses, 
followed by Em. and the children on foot. 

“ Now what do you think of it, my girl ?” inquired 
John. 

“ Oh, it is lovely ! I would like the journey to last 
forever !” exclaimed Em. in delight. 

“ This is only the first day,” said John. 

“ How many days will it be, father ?” 

“ At this rate of travel a week — no, six days ! I ex- 


330 


“ Em. 


pect, with good luck, to be at the Wilderness by Satur- 
day night.” 

“ Then we shall have six happy days !” 

“ Em., when you are tired you must get into the 
wagon.” 

■ “ Tired ! Oh, I am not tired ! I should never get 
tired sauntering along through these lovely, lovely 
woods !” 

“ All right, so much the better for the beasts,” said 
John, as he too, “sauntered” on beside his walking 
horses. 

The three elder women inside, overcome by fatigue, 
dinner, and the motion of the wagon, were all sound 
asleep. 

John and Em. were never wider awake as they walked 
and talked. 

The children ran hither and thither, gathering wild 
dowers, chasing butterflies, startling squirrels, laughing, 
shouting, calling to each other, and making a glad holi- 
day of the summer day’s journey through the woods. 

“ Oh, if it could only last forever !” said Em., clasp- 
ing her hands in fervent aspiration. 

“ It will last six days, my dear, and then maybe we 
may find the end even pleasanter than the journey — 
like a Christian’s pilgrimage through this world, my 
dear. ‘ Sich is life,’ ” said John, gently touching up his 
horses lest they should stand quite still and go to sleep. 

From noon to sunset they made ten miles, and then 
halted for the night in a beautiful little wooded valley 
between two steep hills. 

Here John unharnessed his horses and fed and 
watered them, while Susan and Em. prepared supper. 

After the evening meal, John and the boys set up 
tents, constructed of branches cut from the nearest 


33 1 


A Summer s Flitting. 

<3 


trees, and covered with blankets. Under these Susan 
and Em. made the beds. 

By nine o’clock the four elder persons of the party 
were fast asleep ; but Em. and the three little girls who 
went to bed in the wagon, and the two boys who lay 
down in the smallest tent, were all too pleased with the 
novelty of camping out all night in the woods to be able 
to close their eyes until midnight, when at last, from 
sheer fatigue, they fell asleep. 

They were all delightfully awakened in the morning 
by the caroling of a thousand thousand birds. They 
tumbled out of their funny beds, all full of glee, as birds 
out of their nests. 

Their father was already up and looking after his 
horses, and the three elder women were dressing them- 
selves within the screen of their tent. 

The boys made haste and gathered sticks and kindled 
a fire, and filled the kettle at the spring, and hung it 
over the blaze. 

Then everybody — first the women and children, and 
next the man and boys — went down to the branch and 
washed themselves. 

After breakfast, much rested and refreshed, they 
resumed their journey, the whole party now walking. 

I have given this first day’s journey as a sample of 
all that followed, except the last— Saturday— which was 
the most difficult and dangerous, as on that day they 
had to wind through a tortuous mountain-pass to reach 
their destination— the old manor of the Elphines. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

“the wildernes s” 

Into a valley deep their roadway led, 

Where stood a mansion in a darksome glade, 

With mountains round about environed, 

And mighty woods that did the valleys shade, 

While, like deserted dwelling, lone it stood, 

And far below a mighty river flowed. 

Spenser. 

They had been traveling all that long, long summer’s 
day, over an old, grass-grown, abandoned turn-pike 
road that led through a dark, dense forest, beyond 
which arose, though they could not see it, the frowning 
ridge of mountains known as the Horse-Shoe. 

With every mile of the journey this road grew more 
difficult. The track became narrower, deeper, steeper 
and more winding ; the thickly wooded banks on either 
side, higher, darker, and more rocky, until at length, 
towards the close of day, they found themselves in the 
fearful mountain pass that led to the hidden dale called* 
for its isolation, “ The Wilderness.” 

Terrible as was the prospect before them, they were 
forced to go on, as there was no possible retreat ; 
because to have attempted to turn, or to back the 
wagon, would have been certain destruction. So 
crooked and abrupt were the turnings of this road, that 
[3321 


4 The Wilderness .” 


333 


it was impossible to see more than a few yards before 
or behind them ; so irregular was it, also, that some- 
times the sheer descent of many hundred feet would 
be on the right of their narrow track, and the ascent 
on their left ; and then, after a few tortuous turnings, 
all this would be reversed, and ascent would be on the 
right, and the descent on the left. 

This superlatively perilous position demanded the 
most watchful vigilance and the most anxious care. 

At length it was deemed absolutely necessary that 
the whole party, young and old, should alight from the 
wagon and travel on foot. 

John, as before, walked at the horses’ heads, between 
them and the brink of the descending precipice, leading 
them carefully and praying devoutly. 

His fellow-travelers followed him in a cautious pro- 
cession behind the wagon. 

Susan Palmer led little Molly, keeping herself 
between the child and the precipice, and compelling 
her two lads to walk hand in hand, directly before her, 
that she might have her eye on them and see that they 
did not cut up in such a perilous place. 

Mrs. Whitlock led little Nelly, keeping her on the 
safe side. 

Finally, Em. and old Monica took the Italian child, 
Vennie, between them. 

So they toiled on through that dark mountain pass in 
the declining day ; but not silently, by any means. 
Sometimes, when the turning was more abrupt, the 
descent steeper, and the brink of the precipice nearer 
than usual, John would burst out in exclamatory prayer 
of : 

“ Lord, have mercy and spare our lives, and I’ll try 
to be a better man !” or words to that effect. 

Then Susan would observe : 


334 


“ Em. 


“ Let this be a most solemn warning to you , John 
Palmer, never to leave a sartainty for an onsartainty ; 
never to be beguiled into a road you don’t know the 
end of ; never to buy ‘ a pig in a poke/ You’re a-pray- 
in’ for our lives to be spared, and promising to be a 
better man — now I do hope if we are spared, which I 
don’t expect, that you will be a more prudent man than 
to lead your family into such danger — which I don’t 
look for no more than the other,” or something to the 
same purpose. 

To all of her unjust rebukes poor John would reply, 
in a moralizing mood : 

“ It was her, her own self, as worried me into it, 
whether or no, and now she blames me ; but ‘ sich is 
life !' ” 

There was not one of the party but who bitterly com- 
plained of this portion of their journey, except Em., 
and she really and intensely enjoyed it. The savage 
aspect of the mountain-pass had for her a strange charm, 
a wondrous spell, that she could neither understand 
nor resist. 

The last half mile of the pass, though not less steep, 
rugged, and difficult, was certainly less perilous than it 
had been before. For here, instead of running along 
the very brink of frightful precipices, their road entered 
a sort of cleft in the rocks, between two ridges, so high 
that they hid all view to the right and left, and so 
crooked that the travelers could not see twenty yards 
before or behind them ; so steep that, at every down- 
ward step, the back of the wagon seemed in danger of 
pitching over the heads of the horses. 

At length, a few yards before them, instead of a 
frowning precipice, they saw an opening in the rocks, 
like a broken arch. 

A few turns of the wagon wheels and a few steps of 


The Wilderness. 


335 


< < 


eager walking, brought team and foot-passengers to 
this natural gateway, where, following the road and 
turning abruptly to the right, they were met by a vision 
of beauty and sublimity that might well have repaid 
them for all their toils. 

They were all, for a moment, spellbound. As for 
Em., her first exclamation of amazement and rapture 
died on her lips as she gasped for breath. 

Behind them towered the lofty mountains through 
which they had just passed ; and which, bending 
around them, right and left, embraced a lovely wooded 
vale that gently sloped down to the banks of a broad 
river. 

Beyond the river, arose other wooded heights, behind 
which the setting sun threw up long lines of light that 
struck like gilded arrows through the fir-trees that 
crowned their heads, and tipped with fire every green 
leaf of the wooded vale until for one moment the scene 
seemed to be kindling into a conflagration. Then the 
golden arrows were withdrawn as into a sheath ; the 
sun set, leaving the western horizon a gorgeous ori- 
flamme of golden, purple, crimson, amber and roseate 
clouds, all of which were reflected in the mirror of the 
waters below. 

Such was the vision of beauty that opened before the 
weary travelers. 

John Palmer was the first to break the spell of silence 
that held the party. 

“ Well ! thank the Lord, here we are at last, safe and 
sound and up to time,” he said, taking off his hat and 
wiping his wet forehead, while his tired and thirsty 
horses, standing still, nibbled the fresh herbage in their 
reach. “Here’s the Horseshoe Mountains, and there’s 
the Wilderness, and there the river ! But where’s the 
manor-house ? I see no sign of house, nor barn, nor 


336 


** Em. 


human habitation here,” concluded John, looking all 
over the darkening landscape in despair. 

“No more do I ! But I feel just as if I was a-dream- 
ing of the very worst dream I ever dreamed in my life, 
after eating cold pork-pie for supper,” sighed Susan. 

“Tell you what! It’s a getting dark. Don’t let’s 
go any furder. Jes’ let’s camp out here till morning. 
My poor old knees are all broke, along of trying to hold 
up my body from tumbling over my toes, a clim’ing 
down them there rocks — devil’s stair steps I call ’em !” 
said Mrs. Whitlock. 

Dismayed, John seemed half inclined to take this 
advice for want of better counsel, until Em. came to his 
aid. 

“ Father, dear,” she said, “ don’t you see right under 
us is a road leading into the woods ? It is grass-grown, 
and it looks disused and neglected ; but still it is a. road, 
and must go to some place, probably to the house.” 

“That’s so,” said John, with a look of relief. “I 
don’t see no house, nor no sign of a house ; but here’s 
a road, and we’ll enter it and walk by faith, ‘ for sich is 
life.’ ” 

“ Indeed, then, we’ll not walk another foot by noth- 
ing whatsomedever. If we must go farther, John 
Palmer, the road looks toler’ble safe, and we’ll get in 
the wagon and ride,” said Susan. 

“ Yes, for we’re all just dead beat,” added Mrs. Whit- 
lock. 

“ Get in, then, all on you. I’m sorry for the poor, 
over-driven beasts ; but there, it can’t be helped. ‘ Sich 
is life !’ ” 

The whole party entered the wagon except Em. and 
the boys, who declared that they preferred to walk, and 
John, who, as usual, led the horses. 

It was now almost dark, but from where they started 


The Wilderness. 


337 


<< 


they could still see the river, with the wooded heights 
beyond, and the western horizon with its fading glories. 

The road lay directly westward through the woods, 
down the gentle slope into thicker woods, that soon 
shut from view all but the starlit sky above and the 
faint line of the road below. 

Then they came suddenly to a stone wall on their 
right, within which were woods as thick as those with- 
out, on their left. 

“This must be the wall of the park,” called out 
John to his companions. 

“ Well, then, I hope it is, and that we may not be 
way-laid and murdered before we reach the end of our 
journey !” said Susan, encouragingly. 

“ If that’s the wall, Palmer, keep a sharp look-out for 
the gate, or else you’ll miss it in the darkness, and 
then there !” added Ann Whitlock. 

John laughed, and led his horses a good way yet, 
until he came to an angle, where the road turned 
abruptly, following the wall. 

“ I reckon we shall find the gate on this side. I 
reckon the house fronts the river, you see, and has its 
back to the mountain,” called John to his companions, 
as he cheered his tired horses, which, with the intuition 
that they were drawing near their rest, quickened their 
paces and soon brought the travelers to a huge iron 
gate, where they instinctively came to a halt. 

The strong iron gate looked more like the entrance 
to a State prison than to a gentleman’s mansion. 

On each side of this great gate stood a stone cottage, 
built into the wall. 

From the one on the right, which was probably the 
porter’s lodge, a dim light gleamed from the chinks of 
the little window shutters, while the one on the left 
was closed up and quite dark. 


338 


“ Em. 


John left his horses standing and went to open the 
gate ; but finding it fast, he struck ringing blows upon 
it with the loaded end of his riding whip. 

A voice from the darkness behind the little glimmer- 
ing light called out — in tones, half terrified and half 
defiant : 

“ Who dar ?” 

“ It’s me ! the new overseer and his folks, if this is 
the place called the Wilderness— is it?” asked John, 
coming straight to the point. 

“ Yes, sar ; dis is de Will’ness ! 'Sias, ole man, wake 
up and go open de gate for de new oberseer. Wake up, 
I tell yer ! Don’t be forebberlastin’ a-snoozin’ ober 
yer ole stump o’ pipe ! Yer ’ll die dat way some ob dese 
days, now mind, I tell yer good ! Yer hear me, don’t 
yer? Wake up, I say !” 

A muffled, grumbling and growling voice replied to 
this objurgation, but its words were inaudible, and 
presently the lodge door opened and a little old negro 
man, bent nearly double with age, and carrying a flar- 
ing tallow candle in his hand, came out of the lodge, 
crept up to the gate, and keeping on the safe side, 
held up his flickering light to the face of the stranger, 
and questioned him, as follows : 

“ Is you de new oberseer wot ole Marse Comical tole 
us about ?” 

“ Yes, I am John Palmer, as the agent, Mr. Carmichael 
has sent here,” answered John. 

“ Dat all right, den,” said the little old dwarf, as he 
unlocked and unbarred the great iron gate, and, assisted 
by John, set it wide open. 

“ Where is the house ?” inquired John, who, having 
led his team through these formidable portals, saw noth- 
ing within them but what seemed a continuation of the 
same grass-grown road through the same thick woods. 


“ The Wilderness. 


339 


“ Dribe right straight along dat abenue as you is on, 
and- it will lead yer right up to de main door ob de 
manor-house. Here, take dis,” replied the old man, 
handing to the new warder a large and heavy key, that 
might have answered for the main lock of the Black 
Tower. 

“ I hope the house has been opened and aired,” said 
John. 

The old man evaded the question by saying : 

“ Folly dat abenue, marster, and it will take yer 
straight as a fish hook to de manor-house.” 

“ Has the musty old place been opened and aired for 
us ? That's what we want to know ! Has it ?” peremp- 
torily demanded Susan, who was not to be put off. 

“ Well, no, mist’ess, it ain’t been tetched,” meekly 
answered the old man. 

“ Why not, pray ?” sharply inquired Susan. 

“Which, ma’am, we didn’t ’ceive no orders to dat ’feet 
from Marse Comical, nor likewise, if we had, we couldn’t 
no more get nobody to go into dat house for lub nor 
money nor nothing at all ! No money yer could lay down 
wouldn’t bribe nobody to go inside ob dat house — no, 
not eben in broad daylight !” 

“ What do you mean by that ?” fiercely demanded the 
new overseer’s wife. “ We are going there ! Now, I 
want to know, have we been deceived and tricked by 
your Mr. Comical into going where nobody would go?” 

The old man solemnly shook his head ; but before he 
could utter another word a shrill voice from within the 
lodge called out : 

“ ’SIAS ! Ef yer’s done opened dat gate, come along 
in here dis minute, and stop lettin’ yer ole fool tongue 
run ! Dat tongue ob yern’ll cu£ yer head off, some ob 
dese days ! Now, min’ I tell yer good ! Yer hears me, 
don’t yer ?” 


340 


“ E?n . 


The old man, with a startled air, would have sprung 
to obey this order, but Susan suddenly put out her strong 
arm and caught and held him, peremptorily demanding: 

“ Why can’t you get anybody to go into that old house 
for love or money, either by night or day ? Tell me 
that, I say !” 

“ Nuffin, den !” sulkily answered the old man. “ Leas’ 
said, soonest mended.” 

“ There is something in all this, and I will know what 
it is !” persisted Susan, holding on to her victim. 

The old man opened his mouth, but before he could 
speak came the angry voice from the lodge, shriller 
than ever, screaming : 

“YOU ’SIAS ! Will yer shet up yer ole mouf and 
come in, or mus’ I come out dar and fetch yer by de har 
ob yer head ?” 

“ I’m cornin’, Sereny, honey ; I’m cornin’ now !” 
exclaimed the porter, as he suddenly twitched himself 
out of Susan’s hold, and hurried as fast as age would 
permit him to his lodge. 

Susan climbed out of the wagon as quickly as she 
could and pursued him, crying out : 

“ Not until you have answered my — ” 

But Sias.had gained the sanctuary of his cabin and 
clapped too the door, leaving Susan and her companions 
in the double darkness of ignorance and night. 

“ Well, I declare to man, if I ever saw anything like 
that in all my life before !” exclaimed the baffled and 
indignant woman. 

“ Come, Susan, get into the wagon and let us drive 
on to the house. It is now on to ten o’clock, and the 
little ones are in need of supper and bed,” said John. 

“ Where are Em. and the boys ? Let them get in the 
wagon this minute ! Not be straggling behind in the 
dark, to be whisked up and whirled away before we 


“ The Wilderness.” 341 


know it, in this horrid place !” exclaimed Susan, as she 
climbed into her seat. 

“ Here we all are, mother,” said the voice of Em. 

“ I’m glad of it. Now, John Palmer, do you get up 
on your box. It’s safer there than in the road.” 

“ I can’t, Susan, my dear. It is as dark as pitch, and 
I can’t see my way ; besides, the woods are so thick 
here that the branches of the trees meet across the 
road, and I have to push them out of the way.” 

“John Palmer, you are caught like a foolish old rat 
in a trap ! You’ve come in here, through that mountain- 
pass, that you’ll never be able to get out of, no more 
than an old rat can get out of a trap, the same way he 
got in ! You’re caught now, for a fool, John ! Oh, if 
you had only listened to me !” 

“ I did listen to her,” said John to himself ; “ I did 
listen to her, and follow her advice, and now she blames 
me ! But ‘ sich is life.’ ” 

“You might have known,” continued Susan, “that 
there was something wrong, else why should the owner 
have left the place and gone off ? Or else why couldn’t 
the agent a-got some poor family in the neighborhood 
to come in and take care of the fine mansion for the fine 
wages and other fine things ? Sich situations don’t go 
a-begging, I tell you. Why did this go a-begging, then ? 
/ know why. ’Cause, as the old nigger said, they couldn’t 
get nobody , black nor white, to go inside of that old, 
deserted place for love nor money. There ! So they had 
to send hundreds of miles after a poor, innercent, unsus- 
picioning fellow like you, who didn’t know nothing.” 

A sudden turn and a stop brought Mrs. Palmer’s ora- 
tion to an abrupt end. 

“Well, my dear,” said patient John, “we shall soon 
know all about it, for here we are at the old house, 
thank Heaven.” 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

“ AN OLD DESERTED MANSION.” 

Is this the hall ? The nettle buildeth bowers 
Where loathsome toad and beetle black are seen. 

Are these the gardens? Fed by darkest showers, 

The slimy worm hath o’er them crawling been. 

Is this the home ? The owlet’s dreary cry 

Unto that asking makes a dread reply. 

Nicoll. 

Before them, through the darkness, loomed a huge, 
black, shapeless mass of buildings that seemed only a 
condensation of the heaviest shadows among the shades 
of night. 

Around it reared tall trees, whose tops were dimly 
seen against the starlit sky. 

Behind it towered the highest ridge of the Horse- 
Shoe Mountain. 

John Palmer had guessed right when he said that the 
manor-house, to be so completely hidden, must stand 
amid high trees, with its back to the base of the moun- 
tain, and its front to the wooded vale and the river. 

It was, in fact, so completely concealed by the gigan- 
tic trees that overtopped it as to be invisible to the 
traveler until he was at its threshold. 

“Strike a light and look about you, John, do, so we 
may know what that is before us. To me it looks like 
a jail, or worse 1” said Susan, as she handed a box of 
[ 342 ] 


“An Old Deserted Mansion . 


343 


matches and other requisites for illumination to her 
husband. 

The tired horses stood perfectly still while John 
lighted an end of candle and placed it in a lantern. 

The feeble ray revealed but little in that desert of 
darkness — only a vast, dark, gray stone building, with 
heavy, projecting wings right and left, and a pile of 
huge stone steps, half covered with mould and moss, 
leading up to a great, iron-bound, oaken door, worn and 
weather-stained. 

“ Unlock it, John, while I wake up the children. 
They’re all fast asleep in the wagon,” ordered the man’s 
commanding officer. 

“ You had better let the children stay where they are 
for the present, Susan, until I go in and open some 
room, and kindle a fire to air it. The wagon out o’ 
doors, in the fresh air, is no end wholesomer for ’em 
than a damp, musty, shut up house.” 

“Very well; be quick about it, John, for I’m dead 
beat with hunger and fatigue,” grumbled the half worn- 
out woman. 

“ Are the boys asleep, too ?” inquired John. 

“ No, father !” answered two eager voices for them- 
selves, as Tom and Ned tumbled out of the wagon, too 
excited by the novelty of the situation to think of 
sleeping, and too anxious to be employed to keep quiet 
any longer. 

“ All right, lads ! Now light a candle, each of you, 
and look all around and see if you can find any brush or 
anything else to help to kindle a fire with, and bring it 
into the house to me. There’s the door. I’ll leave it 
open for you.” 

“ Yes, sir ! Yes, sir !” 

And the eager boys lighted their candles and ran 
upon their errands. 


344 


“ Em . 


John put the heavy key into the lock, and all his 
strength upon it before he could turn it, and open the 
door, which shrieked aloud as it grated upon its rusty 
hinges. 

He entered and found himself in a vast hall running 
through the house, from front to back, with correspond- 
ing doors at each end, and a grand staircase rising from 
the centre. 

There were also two doors on each side, and midway 
between these doors, were two wide fireplaces opposite 
each other. 

John went up and down this hall, narrowly inspect- 
ing it. 

It was furnished with oaken chairs and settees, with 
mats laid before them on the stone floor. It was 
tolerably free from dust and must, for a place so long 
shut up. And the air was not so close as might have 
been expected, owing probably to the ventilation 
afforded by the open fireplaces. 

“ Well,” said John to himself, as he looked around, 
“ I don’t see that we can do better than to camp right 
down here in this hall for to-night. Everything ’pears 
to be convenient to cook our supper and make our 
beds.” 

With these words he went to the back door and 
opened it wide, that a free current of air might pass 
through the hall. 

Then he looked out into the darkness. 

He saw nothing but trees lifting their giant heights 
to the starry skies, and beyond them the rugged moun- 
tain wall. 

“ Nothing new ! Nothing but trees and rocks, be- 
fore and behind ; but ‘ sich is life,’ ” said John, as he 
turned to meet his two boys, who came in with much 
. noise, dragging dry brush and carrying their hats full 


“ An Old Deserted Mansion. 


345 


of pine cones. “ That will do, lads ! That will do 
famously. And now we have got two fireplaces to 
choose from — one on one side and one on t’other. Now, 
being the father of a fine family, I’ll stand at the front 
door, and, looking inward, choose the one on the right," 
said John, with an attempt at a joke, for John was 
always merry w T ith his boys. 

A pair of huge andirons, in the shape of lions, stood 
in the fireplace where the boys piled the combustible 
pine cones, and the father applied the lighted match. 
Soon a blaze roared up the chimney that lighted the old 
hall from end to end and floor to ceiling. 

Then they saw how beautiful this hall was, with its 
floor laid in alternate octagon blocks of white and dark 
marble, and its walls paneled with maple. And, in 
addition to the oaken chairs and settees along the sides 
that had at first attracted the attention of John, he now 
discovered stands, tables, racks and brackets, and every 
other needed convenience. 

He piled a plenty of brush on the fire, and then went 
to the front door and called out : 

“ Come, Susan, you may wake up the little ones now 
and bring ’em in ! Stay ! I’ll come out and help 
you !” 

“ Many hands make labor light and so the children 
were soon aroused and taken into the house, where the 
novelty of all they saw kept them sufficiently wide 
awake. 

John and the boys quickly unloaded the wagon and 
conveyed all their household goods into the hall, where 
Susan and Em. began to get supper at the fireplace on 
the right, while Mrs. Whitlock went and filled the 
kettle from a pump she found in the back yard, and 
Monica made beds at the four corners, as the nearest 
approach to privacy that they could then command. 


346 


“ Em. 


“ You and the two boys can sleep in one corner,” 
said Susan ; “ I and the three little girls in another ; 
Mrs. Whitlock and Em. in the third ; and old Aunt 
Monica in the last.” 

Meanwhile John and his lads had gone out to 
unharness the horses. 

“ We won’t try to find the stables to-night, boys, but 
just take the beasts out o’ the wagon and tether them 
here until morning. I didn’t like to say anything before 
the women, but I am just dead beat myself, and ready 
to drop down the minute I have had a bit of supper,” 
said John, with a weary sigh. 

“Go in and rest yourself, father, do ; and me and 
Ned will feed and water the horses,” said Tom. 

“ Yes, do jes’ trust us to do it this once, father. 
We’ve helped you often enough to know how,” added 
Ned. 

“ All right, boys ! You’re better able to do it now 
than I am, I do b’lieve. You’re a-coming up hill and 
I’m a-coming down ; but * sich is life,’ ” answered John, 
as he left the lads and entered the hall and threw him- 
self down on the nearest bed — the one in the corner 
next the front door. 

“Well, you’re good at guessing, anyhow, John. 
That’s the very place we ’pointed for you and the boys 
to sleep, because you would be on guard there like,” 
said Susan, approvingly ; but John was in “ the land of 
Nod ” before her speech was finished. 

So Susan applied herself to the frying of ham and 
eggs, while Em. drew out one of the handsomely carved 
oak tables, laid a cloth, and arranged for supper. 

By the time all was ready, the boys came in from 
their work, noisy and hungry. 

John was roused from his sleep and all gathered 
around the table, where fragrant tea, cream bought 


An Old Deserted Mansion. 


347 


from a farmer that morning, fresh eggs and ham, and 
good bread and butter satisfied their appetites and re- 
paid them for their toils. 

After supper busy hands washed up the dishes and 
cleared the table, and then John led family prayers and 
all went to bed, and all but one to sleep. 

It is said that people cannot sleep well the first night 
in a strange place. 

That depends on circumstances. 

The people who arrived that midsummer night at the 
old manor-house of the Wilderness, were so completely 
prostrated by fatigue that, with one exception, they slept 
so profoundly they might be said to have “ died entirely 
dead ” for the next ten hours. 

The exception was Em. 

Em. had improved the sleeping plan of the family, 
by making a little separate pallet for herself remote 
from all the others, and near the foot of the grand 
staircase. 

Here, long after her companions were all “ dead and 
gone ” into the deepest sleep, Em. lay, in spite of her 
bodily fatigue, preternaturally wide awake ; kept so by 
her strange surroundings, impressible imagination and 
excitable temperament, and as much alone in that vast, 
old hall as if the distant sound sleepers were not in 
existence. 

The great hall was now quite dark, for the quick fire 
by which they had cooked their supper had gone out. 

Em. lay in that deep darkness with her eyes wide 
open, and peering above the head of the grand stair- 
case, where a large, dim window admitted from the 
night sky so faint a light that it seemed only a finer 
dark. 

Em. lay there meditating, speculating, dreaming, 
peering, hour after hour, for— she knew not how long— 


34 § 


“ Em. 


when, at length, she began to see that the faint light in 
the lofty windows was growing fuller. 

She watched the brightening beam, and thought the 
day was dawning, until, slowly and softly, a ray of silvery 
light crept up on the wide window-sill, and spread 
abroad until the whole gallery above the staircase, and 
even a section of the lower hall, was one flood of radi- 
ance. 

“ I might have known it was the moon. It is not yet 
near morning, only the night does seem so long when 
one lies wide awake ; it is not more than two o’clock, 
for that is the hour at which the moon rises to-night, I 
know,” said the watcher to herself ; for since they had 
been traveling in this primitive style, and camping out 
every night, John Palmer’s family had become pretty 
well posted in the almanac of the year, particularly as 
to the hours of the rising and the setting of the sun and 
moon. 

Wider awake than ever, Em. lay with open eyes 
watching the beautiful effect of the moonlight, which, 
filtering through the foliage of the trees beyond the 
window, threw their graceful shadows on the stairs, 
and on the floor of the lower hall. 

She clasped her hands above her head and lay luxuri- 
ating in this still, bright beauty, when — 

Heaven and earth ! What was that ? 

The gazer’s blood curdled. She tried to call out, but 
her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. 

The light was intercepted for a moment by a form 
that crossed before the window and began to descend 
the staircase. 

It was the beautiful form of a woman, draped from 
the veiled head to the hidden feet in pure and snowy 
white, that beamed like “ bridal satin ” and silver gauze 
in the bright moonshine. 


“ An Old Deserted Mansion. 


349 


Slowly and softly the apparition descended the 
stairs, and approached the pallet on which Em. lay. 

In a panic of horror that deprived her of all power of 
motion or utterance, she lay with closed eyes and 
suspended breath. 

She felt the radiant form standing over her ; she 
heard its breathing ; then she heard some words, low, 
sweet, tender, as the softest sigh of the ASlian harp — 
but ineffably mournful, too. 

“ ‘ One in the morning woke 

To a world of joy and pain. 

But the other was happier far — 

She never woke again.’ 

“ Sleep on, young maiden ! Would I had the power 
to bid you sleep forever.” 

At that point Em.’s heart turned to ice, and she 
nearly lost consciousness. 

Then she felt the apparition glide away — she felt 
that it was gone ! 

Slowly, slowly the girl came out of what had been 
almost a swoon of terror. 

What was it that she had seen ? Whence had it 
come ? Whither gone ? 

She did not dare to think. She then remembered the 
vague words of the old gate-keeper concerning this 
ghostly and all deserted house, and, shuddering, put to 
herself the question that many besides the haunted 
Macbeth has asked : 

“ ‘ Can such things be V ” 

There was no possibility of sleep for the startled 
spirit of the young girl. She lay through the long and 
tedious hours that preceded the dawn, convinced in her 
own mind that she had beheld a supernatural being ; 
wondering at the unnecessary panic into which the 


350 


“ Em. 


harmless visitation had thrown her ; speculating as to 
the reason why people should be afraid of ghosts, since 
it was never known that a ghost had ever hurt a living 
creature ; asking herself, too, whether it were possible 
for her so to overcome the weakness of the flesh as 
to nerve herself to look upon and speak to this beauti- 
ful, flute-voiced spirit, should it ever re-appear to her. 

But to this question Em.’s sensitive flesh uttered 
a decided negative in such thrills and shudders and 
creepings upon its own bones, that she gave up the 
point. 

In the midst of all her mental disturbance, the girl 
had the self-control to make one resolution on the sub- 
ject of her vision — never to mention it to any human 
being. She knew well that if she should tell what she 
had seen, her story would disturb and perhaps disorgan- 
ize the family, and send them hurrying away from the 
haunted house, to seek uncertain livelihood elsewhere. 

No ! Em. would never tell. She would keep the 
ghost’s secret, if only the ghost would have discretion to 
keep its own. 

So resolving Em. watched for the dawn of day. 

Meanwhile her companions, “ dead and buried ” in the 
profoundest depths of sleep, gave no signs of an early 
resurrection. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

EM.’s WONDERFUL ADVENTURE. 

In the island’s glades and vistas 
Lovely are the light and gloom ; 

Fountains sparkle in the gardens, 

And exotics breathe perfume. Mackay. 

The sleeping family were roused, about five o’clock in 
the morning, by the bright beams of the newly-risen 
sun streaming down through the window at the head of 
the grand staircase, and flooding the whole front of the 
hall with dazzling light : also by the caroling of birds, 
the crowing of cocks, the cackling of hens, the lowing 
of cows, the bleating of sheep, the barking of dogs, and, 
finally, by the shouting of some one who was loudly 
knocking at the front door. 

John started up, drew on his trousers, and opened it 
to see old ’Sias standing there, with a large bunch of 
keys in his hand. 

“ Which dey ’longs to the locks inside ob de house ; 
but was furgot to be guv to yer las’ night, sir, and hopes 
yer wasn’t ill-conwenienced by de same,” the old man 
explained, presenting the keys. 

“Not at all, no,” said John Palmer, kindly. 

But the old man lingered, keeping John at the open 
door, and presently saying : 


[35i] 



352 


“Em. 


“ Did yer hear anything last night, marster ?” 

“ No,” said Palmer, staring. 

“ Nor likewise see anything ?” 

“ No.” 

“That was wery strange.” 

“Why ? What should I hear or see ?” 

“Least said soonest mended, marster,” muttered the 
old man, and with that he turned abruptly and dived 
into the woods and disappeared. 

“ John !” called the voice of Susan from a distant and 
shadowy corner. “ Pull that old negro in here by the 
hair of his head and make him tell what he means !” 

“ My dear, I don’t believe he knows what he means. 
And, besides, he’s gone ! And, moreover, he hasn’t 
much hair left to be pulled ! I reckon as his wife has 
used it all up — for ‘ sich is life,’ ” muttered John to him- 
self. 

Em., lying on her pallet, waiting for an opportunity 
to rise and dress, had heard all that was said, but true 
to her resolution of silence on the subject of her vision, 
she did not speak. 

By this time the boys had hastily drawn on their 
clothes. 

“ Come, lads, we’ll go out and look after the horses, 
and give the women and girls a chance to get up and 
dress,” said their father. 

And they left the house together. 

“ This hall is as big as the inside of a church,” said 
Susan, as she arose from her lowly bed and looked 
about her. 

Her companions were already up, and dressed. 

Old Monica began to kindle the fire, and when it was 
burning she went and lifted the bedding, one load at a 
time, and carried it out among the trees, for the double 
purpose of clearing the hall and airing the clothes. 


Em.'s Wonderful Adventure. 


r 

o 


Em. drew water and filled the kettle. 

Ann Whitlock took the children out to the pump to 
wash their faces, and found that John and the boys had 
already been there. 

Em. and her mother had the privilege of a hand- 
basin and a crash towel in the house. 

Monica succeeded the children at the pump. 

“Well,” said Susan Palmer, “ I hope this is the last 
morning as we shall have to live in this outlandish sort 
of way ! I hope this day we’ll all get settled in decent 
rooms !” 

“ No, my dear,” said John, who had just come in, 
followed by his boys, as usual very hungry and obstrep- 
erous. “ No, my dear Susan ! This is the Sabbath — 
the day of rest — and we all need rest badly — the day of 
the Lord, and we’ll keep it holy. No unnecessary work 
to-day, but after breakfast we will have the morning 
service.” 

“ If I didn’t forget it was Sunday !” said Susan ; 
“ but this here living of a wild life for a whole week is 
just enough to put everything out of one’s head that 
the) 7 ever knew before !” 

They breakfasted well on broiled mackerel, corn- 
cakes, and good coffee. 

When the dishes were washed and the table cleared 
away, John brought out his big Bible and conducted 
the morning service. 

After that was over, the front door was opened and 
the young people allowed to disperse through the woods 
and enjoy the delightful summer’s day out-doors. 

“ Well, Em. ! is this country enough for you ?” inquired 
Palmer, coming to the side of his favorite child as she 
stood on the highest step leading down from the front 
door and looked out on the scene before her. 

“ Oh, yes, father, yes ! This seems like heaven ! It 


354 


“ Em r 


is happiness only to live and breathe here !” ex- 
claimed the girl, drawing in a deep inspiration of 
delight. 

“ Well, there you are mistaken, my lass ! It ain’t 
enough to live and breathe in any place, however pretty ! 
Bless you, if you live and breathe you get hungry and 
sleepy, and can’t be happy without food and bed ; and 
you also wear out clothes and want new ones — for ‘ sich 
is life,’ Em.” 

“Oh, father, yes,” said Em. “I know that. Who 
should know it better than you and I ! But, as you 
told mother, this is the Sabbath ! On this day let us 
forget all earthly cares and worship the Lord in His 
temple of nature, and enjoy all the beauty and glory of 
His earth and Heaven ! Oh, father, just now it is hap- 
piness enough to live and breathe !” 

“ Well, so it is, Em., to your young spirit, but to a man 
worn out with work, as I am, lass, it is something of a 
task even to live and breathe without sleep enough. I 
believe I’ll go in and take a nap.” 

“ Father, let me go and bring a blanket and a pillow, 
and spread them for you under these trees ; it will be 
delicious to sleep out here in the shade.” 

“ So it will, lass. Do it.” 

Em. ran to the back of the house, where all the bed- 
ding had been left to air, and brought the blankets and 
arranged them under the great oak tree, where presently 
John flung himself to enjoy the finest nap he had ever 
known in his life. 

Em. went back to the top stair before the front door, 
and stood looking down upon the lovely landscape. 

The wooded vale was before her, encircled by the 
mountains and descending to the river. After having 
thus “viewed the landscape o’er,” she went down the 
steps and turned into the deeply shaded avenue by which 


Em.’s Wonderful Adventtire. 


355 


they had approached the house on the previous night, 
and she followed it in an adventurous spirit, to see where 
it would take her. 

It took her through thick woods whose branches met 
over her head, whose fallen leaves, even in summer, car- 
peted her path ; where squirrels, rabbits and hares were 
so tame that they sat and looked at her with their bright 
eyes, and scarcely took the trouble to hop out of her 
way, even when they were in her path ; where birds 
were so familiar that they lighted on her hat as often as 
it pleased them. 

And as for the girl, such was her tenderness for these 
wild wood creatures that she scarcely breathed as she 
went along for fear of frightening them. 

Her woodland walk brought her at length to the great 
gate in the wall, beyond which she saw nothing but more 
woods, with an occasional glimpse of the river between. 

The porter’s lodge was shut up. Nobody seemed to 
be at home. But the great gate stood wide open, and 
Em. passed out of it, and looked about her. Before the 
wall were the thick woods, and below them the shining 
river, with the green hills beyond. 

From the great gate three roads diverged, all deeply 
shaded, grass-grown, and leaf-strewn. The roads to the 
right and left ran along the stone wall and between it 
and the woods. The road on the left led, slie knew, to 
the mountain pass ; that on the right went, she knew 
not where ; but the third road ran straight from the 
gate through the woods down toward the river. 

Em. decided to follow the last mentioned. 

She sauntered on, enjoying the glory of the summer 
morning, and the freshness of the woods, peopled only 
by the little four-footed and winged creatures, that 
seemed to have so little fear or so much faith as not to 
hurry themselves the least to get out of her way. 


356 


“ Em. 


As she descended the wooded slope, the trees grew 
thicker, impeding her progress, making it necessary for 
her to put out her hands to push aside their branches as 
she passed on, and completely obstructing her view. 

After walking about a quarter of a mile through this 
thicket, she caught glimpses between the trees, of the 
glistening white sands on the river’s shore. 

As there was less obstruction now, she quickened her 
steps, and in a rapid walk of ten minutes she reached 
the banks of the broad, bright, beautiful river ! 

Em. paused in a breathless rapture of admiration of 
the glorious scene that opened before her ! The mag- 
nificent river, with its calm, majestic flow, the green 
hills beyond and the waving trees above them, all re- 
splendent in the light of the morning sun. 

But the very gem, the diamond, the Koh-i-noor of this 
radiant landscape, was an island some miles down the 
stream and about midway between the shores. 

The perfect clearness of the air made this bright island 
distinctly visible to the keen vision of the young girl, 
and once having fixed her eyes upon it, she could not 
withdraw them. 

It attracted, fixed, spell-bound her. Surely this must 
be the Enchanted Isle of the fairy tales — the “ Island 
of Calm Delights,” where the fairy princess was nurtured 
in blissful seclusion. 

It was indeed a place of ideal beauty. Rising from 
the midst of the clear river, it was so freshly verdant 
that in the splendid morning sunshine it sparkled like 
an emerald ! From its circle of lovely groves arose a 
velvety green hill, dappled over with roses and flower- 
ing shrubs, studded with arbors and garden seats, and 
spangled with springs and fountains that threw out rain« 
bow lights, 


Em.'s Wonderful Adventure . 


357 


Above these arose a palace, that seemed to Em. like 
the visionary mansion in Paradise. 

It was constructed of some snow-white stone, that 
glistened in the sun like frosted silver and contrasted 
beautifully with the emerald green foliage and the 
bright-hued flowers around it. It had many windows, 
composed of single .sheets of plate glass,* that shone like 
mirrors of light, for they had no visible shutters. It had 
many porticoes, verandas and balconies, all constructed 
of the semi-transparent, silvery, frosted, white stone, in 
trellis-work, pillars, cornices, etc. 

The palace was pure, snow-white, frosted, shining on 
its emerald hill, amid its emerald groves. 

Em. held her breath in the very ecstasy of aspiration, 
as she gazed on the radiant isle that looked as if it had 
been let down from heaven. 

Oh, to get nearer to that vision ! Only to get nearer 
to that vision ! To see, walk over, test it, to know that 
it was no dazzling phantasmagoria, but a resplendent, 
substantial reality ! To see, to touch, to scent the flow- 
ers that must grow there ; the roses, the lilies — oh ! 

You see, to this poor girl who had grown up amid the 
ugliness and fetor of Laundress Lane, this vision of 
beauty was more than exhilarating, it was intoxicating. 

A homely kindly voice in her ear broke the spell that 
bound her. 

“ Was you wishing to go to de preachin’, honey ?” 

Em. did not start, but turned around slowly and 
stared at the speaker in a dazed sort of way, without 
seeing him at all. 

“ Would yer be wantin’ to go to de preachin’, I was 
askin’ yer, honey ?” repeated the voice. 

Em. started slightly then, like one waking from a 
dream, and saw before her the little old negro gate~ 
porter, whom she had heard called ’Sias. 


358 


“ Em. 


“ I was askin’ yer, honey, dough maybe yer didn’t 
hear me, was yer wishin’ fur to go to de preachin’ ?” 
explained the old man, touching his tall and shining 
stove-pipe hat. 

“Oh!” exclaimed Em,, “ I— I just came out for a 
walk. I did not know there was any preaching near. 
Toll me, please, what lovely — ” 

Here Em. impulsively stopped and looked around to 
see if the radiant island had vanished like a brief 
optical illusion. No, there it beamed and sparkled. It 
was real. It was substantial. 

“ I was askin’ yer, honey — ” began the old man again. 

“ Yes, I know,” said Em., interrupting him. “ But 
please tell me first, what beautiful place is that ? That 
island palace, splendid as the mansions of the blest ?” 

“ That island, honey ? That island is called Eden- 
garden,” reverently replied the old man. 

“ Edengarden ! What an appropriate name ! It is a 
Garden of Eden, indeed ! A perfect paradise ! I never 
thought to see on the face of this earth any place so 
beautiful, so divine ! Who lives there ? Are they angels, 
or perfect men and women ?” inquired Em., in a dream- 
like voice. 

“ De White Spirit libs dere, honey, when any one 
does,” replied the old man, with a mysterious air. 

“ ‘ The White Spirit !’ Are you telling me fairy 
.stories ?” demanded Em., in perplexity. 

Then she suddenly remembered her vision of the 
night and grew very grave. 

“ No, honey, I ain’t telling of yer no story at all, but 
de blessed trufe ! It’s de White Spirit, dey call her,” 
whispered old ’Sias, more mysteriously than before. 

“ They call her ! Who call her ?” questioned Em., 
wondering if she were dreaming or deranged. 

“ De people about here, honey, calls her dat name.” 


Evils Wonderful Adventure. 


359 


“ But whom, whom do they call the White Spirit ?” 

“ De lovely lady, honey, what ’pears on de island in 
de spring and disappears in de fall.” 

“‘Appears’ and ‘disappears!’ Do you mean that 
she comes and goes ?” 

“ Yes, honey, if yer like to put it dat way, I’m agree- 
able ; but how she comes and how she goes, nobody 
knows ! and jes where she comes from and where she 
goes to, nobody knows neither !” 

“ But who is she, then ?” persisted- Em 

“ Nobody knows.” • 

“ Why do they call her the White Spirit ?” 

“ For de wery cause I been telling you ! ’Cause she 
’pears and disappears like a spirit, and nobody knows 
how ! Comes and goes, nobody knows jes when or 
where ! No one as I eber heard of has eber seen her 
face ; it is always veiled with white gauze, and very few 
have seen her form ; and it is always clothed in white ! 
She flits here and there and away ! Ain’t all dat good 
cause to call her de White Spirit ?” inquired the old 
man. 

“ Yes, indeed ! I should think so,” gravely replied 
the young girl, as her mind reverted to the white, 
spectral figure of her midnight vision. “ But,” she con- 
tinued, “ is that all you can tell me about the matter ? 
Has that island no history ? Who lived there before 
this mysterious White Spirit ?” inquired Em. 

“ Nobody ; she wasde berry first.” 

“ When was she first seen there ? I never heard of 
such a thing in all my life. Can't you tell me all about 
it ?” 

“ Yes, honey ; but let me sit down here and rest 
myself. It’s a long walk from the gate-lodge,” said the 
old man, as he seated himself on a piece of rock, took 
off his hat, and wiped his face. 


“ Em. 


360 


Em. followed his example and seated herself on a 
fragment of stone not far from her aged companion. 

In doing so her eyes fell from the contemplation of 
the far-off island to the shining beach, and there at her 
feet, for the first time, she noticed a pretty little sail- 
boat, tied to a water-post, and rocking on the river. 

“ That is the 4 White Dove.’ It used to belong to the 
island, but it was given to me when my row-boat was 
lost on the island shores, and I had no way to get home. 
That was about a month ago. Now I keep it here to 
go to preaching in. Service begins at noon precisely, 
when the sun is at the highest. It is a notion of the 
preacher's ; so we have got a good hour to spare yet. and 
so I’ll just sit here and rest myself, while I tells yer de 
story ob Edengarden Isle and de beautiful White Spirit, 
as dey calls de lady what owns it. And I reckon, honey, 
when yer hears it, you’ll own as yer haven’t eber heard 
a stranger one,” said the old man, settling himself com- 
fortably. 

“ Do,” said Em., as her thoughts flew back to the 
spectre she had seen descending the old manor-hall 
staircase in the moonlight. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

WOMAN, OR SPIRIT? 

It is the portrait of a lady. 

Rogers. 

The old gate-keeper commenced his story. 

“ When I was a little boy, and dat was about a hun- 
d’ed years ago, honey — ” 


Woman , or Spirit ? 


,6 1 


“ My goodness me ! You’re never as old as that!” 
exclaimed Em., interrupting and staring at the little old 
man. 

“ More or less , honey, more or less /” hastily amended 
’Sias, who was one of those colored patriarchs who take 
a grotesque pride in exaggerating their own age to a 
fabulous longevity. “ When I was a little boy, a hun- 
d’ed and fifty years ago — more or less ; for I wouldn’t be 
guilty of a false — that there island was nothing but a 
wild, rocky, barren desert, what nobody ebber libbed 
in, and nobody ebber wanted to lib in. And so it con- 
tinued to be until about fifteen years ago, when one 
May day, all of a suddint, comes a witch boat up de 
river to de rocky island !” 

“ A witch boat ?” 

“ Yes, honey, a witch boat ! And it comes, if you 
please to beliebe me, dough I know yer can’t, for all it’s 
de trufe I’m tellin’ on yer — it comes, honey, dis boat 
does, straight up de riber agin de stream, widdout de 
help ob a stitch ob sail, or a stick ob oar ! And it comes 
a gruntin’, and a groanin’, and a puffin’, and a blowin’, 
and breathin’ hard like any other hard-worked livin’ 
creetur — it’s trufe I’m tellin’ yer, honey, dough I 
know yer'll nebber beliebe it ! Yer can’t, yer know, 
’less yer’d seed it !” 

“Yes, I can,” laughed Em. ; “and I have seen it, or 
many like it. It was a steamboat that came to the 
island. Did you never hear of a steamboat ?” 

“ ‘ Steam ’ — ‘ boat ?' What trash dat, yer tryin’ to ’pose 
on an ole man ? Steamboat ! I’s heard o’ steam, and 
heard o’ boat, and likewise seen bofe on ’em, offen and 
offen ! But ‘ steamboat !’ no, ma’am ! Yer might’s 
well ax me to beliebe , in a /^-carriage as a steam - 
boat !” 

“ Well, I will ask you to believe in a fire-carriage, for 


“ Em, 


362 


it is true ! There are fire-carriages that carry from ten 
to fifty great cars behind them !” laughed Em. 

“ G’long ’way from here, gal ! Ef yer ’sumes for to 
tell me sich awful ones, I won’t stop here to listen to 
’em ! I’ll get up and go right away and never tell yer 
another word about Edengarden and de White Spirit,” 
exclaimed the old man, rising in righteous indignation 
and setting his tall hat upon his head. 

But Em. was by his side in an instant — imploring 
him : 

“Oh , please, Uncle ’Sias ! I’ll be good ! I won’t say • 
another word you don’t like ! And, remember, I 
believed every word you told,” she concluded, as she 
took his hat away and gently forced him to resume his 
seat and continue his story. . 

“ Well, honey, dis boat, ’dout any sails or oars, comes 
puffin’ and blowin’ and gruntin’ and groamn’ and 
tuggin’ and tuggin’ behind it — what do you think now, 
honey ? why, a long raft loaded with a lot o’ truck — 
barrels, and casks, and kegs ; also tools and ’tensils and 
’chinery and laws knows what — ’nough to cut down a 
forest and build a town, a body would think, and men 
enough besides to do all de work !” 

“Well, what then ?” asked Em. 

“ De witchcraft boat comes to a stop and stands still, 
and puffs and blows for a while a hund’ed times 
harder’n ever, jes for all de worl’ like any oder ole 
body what has run too fas’ and got out o’ breaf ! It 
panted so hard, it did, dey heard it way up to de Wilder- 
ness House itself ! When de boat ’covered of its broaf, 
de men ’gan to get de load out’n de raft onto de shore 
o’ de island. Well, honey, yer might take yer Bible 
oaf to it, dat I got my little fishin’ boat and rowed up 
dat a way to see what was going on. I kep’ on dis side 
ob de island. De witch boat was on t’other side, ’haps 


Woman, or Spirit ? 


36 . 


fast asleep arter her hard work ; anyhow she wasn’t 
making no fuss ! Well, chile, when I got dere, I hadn’t 
no call to leabe de boat, ’cause dere wasn’t no trees dere 
to struct de view, nuffin but bare ground and rocks. 
So dere I see on de hill, on de middle ob de island, a 
lot o’ men with chains and spikes a draggin’ and a 
measurin’, and another man a watchin’ them, and den 
callin’ out de figures, and yet another man standin’ up 
wid a white paper book and pencil, a writin’ down de 
figures. So I didn’t see no more, and so I come away, 
habin’ to go to my work. Next day I was too busy to 
leabe de work ; but de day arter, I made a scuse to go 
a fishin’, and I rowed up to de island, and rowed on de 
safe side, keeping' away from de witch boat — leastways 
I thought how I was on de safe side, seein’ I was away 
from de boat, but, laws, honey, listen — ” 

“ I am listening !” 

“ Well, while I ’tendin’ to fish, watchin’ de island, I 
see some men standin’ way off to de distance, like dey 
was waitin’ for somethin’. Well, honey, dere was a 
little thread o’ curly smoke cornin’ out’n a creak in de 
rocks, like somebody had trowed a match away or 
somethin’. I didn’t mind it a bit, till all of a suddint 
somethin’ went off like hund’ed tousand claps o’ thunder 
all in one — 

“ ‘Bang ! Bang ! ! Bang ! ! ! Spang ! ! ! !’ And up 
flew rocks as big as houses, and down they come all 
around me and my boat, in a hall-storm of millstones 
— dropping in de ribber. 

“ 1 Co-showsh ! co-showsh ! co-showsh !’ and flingin’ 
up water-spouts and whirlpools all about ! 

“ Lor ! Lor ! Lor ! honey ! Ef ebber yer see a 
poor, mis’able, ole colored gem’an clean demented and 
out’n his lunacies, long o’ scare, dis is de man. I 
couldn’t manage my boat no more’n nuffin ’tall, a flyin’ 


364 


“ Em. 


round and round in de whirlpool among de water-spouts 
and millstones thunderin’ down all around. I jest went 
leapin’ mad, and ’spected instant death.” 

“ They were blasting rocks previous to laying the 
foundation of the palace, I suppose ; but it was very 
dangerous,” said Em. 

“ Hush, honey, I tell yer ! By and by, when the 
horrid noise was over, and the millstones stopped fall- 
ing, and the boat stopped flyin’ round, and I found out 
as I wasn’t killed, I jest laid myself to my oars and went 
up stream faster’n I ebber moved before or since. And, 
honey, I never went anigh that island again for years. 
Lor ! it makes my flesh creep to think of it now !” 

“You had a narrow escape of your life, that time,” 
said Em., trying to keep from laughing, for seeing the 
hero of the story quite safe before her, she had no check 
upon her sense of the ludicrous in the man’s adventure. 

“Well, honey, to make a long story short, dese blast- 
ings, as yer call dem — dese thunderings, and lightnings, 
and earthquakes, and hailstorms of millstones, and 
water-spouts, and whirlpools, and commotions, and 
panics, and terrors, continued all de live-long summer 
and fall, and far into de winter. De men dey built 
sheds and huts for demselves and deir tools, and squatted 
dere all winter. And de witchboat went and come 
backwards and forwards all de winter, till deribber friz, 
and ice locked her on the lower shore of dis island. 

“ Next spring work was ’sumed, and we all ’gantosee 
de white palace rising from its foundations, and de 
walks bein’ laid, and de young trees and bushes planted. 

“ And den, honey, it ’gan to be rumored for the first 
time, how a lady, young and beautiful, and ’normous 
rich, had bought de rocky island, ’count ob its remote 
sitteration and subliberty, and was a-going to turn it into 
a perfect paradise.” 


Woman , or Spirit? 


365 


“And she has done it !” exclaimed Em., with enthusi- 
asm. “She has made ‘the wilderness to bloom and 
blossom as the rose.’ ” 

“ It took years, honey, to bring it to what it is now. 
All that men and money could do for it was done in 
about two years ; but it took time for the beautiful trees 
to grow. And I tell you, honey, dat every year dat 
island has grown more and more beautiful. And every 
year it will keep on growing more and still more beau- 
tiful, until — until the end of the world !” concluded ’Sias, 
driven to extremity for comparison. 

Em. smiled, a little sobered down by the knowledge 
that this lovely, “ enchanted island’' was, after all, only 
the slow creation of time, money, and human hands. 

“ And perhaps the White Spirit of Edengarden is no 
more than a woman like other women,” she said to her- 
self. Then aloud to old 'Sias : 

“ Yet it is very strange that so little is seen or known 
of the fortunate owner of this delightful home. But at 
least her name must be known.” 

“ Well, yes, some people what go to de county court- 
house, where de deeds and dockerments is kep’ and taxes 
paid and sich, do say her name is Lyn, and how she is a 
widow ; but in course I don’t know the rights ob dat. 
She’s been libin’ here off and on for de las’ fourteen 
years, cornin’ ebery spring and goin’ away ebery fall ; 
but she libs all to herself, making no visits and 'ceiving 
none. When she first corned here fourteen years ago, 
in course de county quality, as in duty bound to wel- 
come de stranger in deir neighborhood, did call upon de 
lady ; but laws ! dey never got no farder dan her 
front hall, which dey do say is all white marble, and dey 
never seed nobody but her servants, who treated them 
with delicious refreshments, but said dat deir mist ’ess 
could not 'ceive visits nor likewise pay dem. Uviph , 


366 


“ Em. 


humph! Weren’t our quality mad, neider ? Den by 
and by, chile, it ’gan to be whispered how dis lovely 
lady had ’tired from deciety, ’pon account ob some 
great sorrow or shame she had suffered, like habingher 
husband hung for murder, or sich !” 

“ Oh !” cried the girl, with a start and a shudder. 

“ And some went so far as to hint dat her name 
wasn’t Lyn at all, and dat she had run away and hid 
herself ’pon ’count ob some great crime as she had 
’mitted.” 

“ Ah !” exclaimed Em., in atone of pain, as if she had 
received a stab. 

“ But dat last yer can’t get anybody about here to 
beliebe, ’cause she’s too well knowed for de best-hearted 
angel as eber breafed, if dere ain’t nuffin else knowed 
about her. She’s a ministering angel, she is, to all de 
poor, de sick, de sufferin’, and ’special to childun !” 

“ But if she never docs show herself, how can she 
minister to the poor ?” 

“ Oh, lor, honey, she’s got lots and lots ob serbants to 
fly and do her bidding in all directions ! And special 
one likely colored ’oman as carries her purse and is her 
confidentional maid.” 

“ Her confidential maid, do you say ?” 

“ Yes, honey, dat’s what I meant to say, her confiden- 
tional maid, what carries her purse and ’spenses her 
alms.” 

“ Is the lady at the island now ?” inquired Em., in a 
tone of reverence. 

“ No one has seed her, or any ob her usual ’tendants 
yet, honey, so I can’t tell you ; but, lor ! she may have 
rived last night or dis morning eben. Howsoeber, we’ll 
be likely to know when we go to de preaching.” 

“ Where A the preaching ?” inquired Em., with some 
interest. 


Woman, or Spirit ? 


3^7 


The old man looked at her in surprise for some 
moments without speaking, and then said : 

“ Why, I thought I had told you ! On de island, of 
course !” 

“On Edengarden !” exclaimed Em., in delight. 

“ Yes, certainly ! where else should it be ? Will you 
go?” inquired old ’Sias. 

“ Oh, yes, yes, yes ! Indeed I will ! Who preaches 
there ?” 

“ Why, I thought I had told you — ” 

“ No, you didn’t really.” 

“ Well, dere ! how one forgets ! Well, den, honey, 
it’s dis way. ’Mong de people as de lady has around her 
is one who libs all to himself in a little white temple at 
dis end ob de island. He is an old-fashioned saint or 
hermit, who nebber leabs de place, winter nor summer, 
but stays dere and ’spenses charity all de year ’round 
and preaches at twelve o’clock ebery Sunday for all as 
will come to hear him. But he nebber leabs de island, 
not for no purpose.” 

“ Why does he never leave the island ? Has he taken 
vows never to do so ?” 

“ Oh, no, nothing like dat ! But he can’t get away, 
honey ; he’s blind and lame.” 

“ Oh, poor, poor man ! blind and lame ! What mis- 
fortunes !” 

“ Indeed, you wouldn’t say so if you was to see him, 
honey, or to hear him ! He’s just de grandest looking 
man you ebber clapped your eyes on! Like a king, 
honey ! Like a prophet ! Like Moses ! Like Isaiah ! 
Like David, honey ! And you neber would know he 
couldn’t walk, for he stands like a pillar of strength ! 
And you neber would beliebe he was blind ; for his 
great, shining blue eyes look through and through you, 
and above you and ober de ribber, and far-r-r away up 


“ Em. 


368 


into de blue heaben ! And den, ’fore yer could catch 
yer breaf, back again, looking down into yer very heart. 
Dere, honey, dat’s him !” 

“Was he always blind?” inquired Em. 

“ Oh, dear, no, honey ! I’ll tell you how dey say it 
happened. He was a young minister, and was just 
married, and had just walked out’n de church wid his 
young bride on his arm, as happy as a king, when de 
thunder-storm, as had been gedderin’ all de arternoon, 
suddenly burst. Den dere came an awful flash o’ light- 
ning, and clap o’ thunder, and smote de two down in de 
same instant ! De poor bride was killed on de spot, 
but dey found out arterwards as he was only struck 
blind.” 

“ ‘ Only struck blind !’ ” echoed Em., in tones of deep 
compassion. 

“ Yes, but oh ! honey, it do seem like dat flash o’ 
lightning what shet up his vision on dis earth opened 
it into heaben. Arid de paralytic stroke what lately 
chained his limbs loosed his spirit, for he do seem to 
go to de land o’ glory, honey, and bring some ob de 
light down to some ob us poor, benighted mortals. 
But come, chile, dere’s my boy ’Si. got my boat ready. 
Come, get in, and we’ll sail away to de island.” 


THE END. 


A Sequel to “Em is published under the title of 
“ Em.’s Husband, A Sequel to ‘Em.,' ” by 
Mrs. E. D. E. JV. Southworth . 

Handsomely bound in cloth . Price $ 1,00 , Paper cover , jo cts. 


LILITH 


A Sequel to “The Unloved Wife.” 


By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 


With Illustrations by O. W. Simons. 


Paper Cover, 50 Cents. Bound in Cloth, $1.00. 


In “ Lilith,” Mrs. Southworth has taken up the fortunes of her 
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the novels is perfectly complete in itself, and neither is necessary 
to the perfection of the other, but they may be read together, 
and thus they form a more extended and more beautiful develop- 
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“ The Unloved Wife” Lilith is a girl; in “Lilith” she is a 
woman. There are more power and more of the interest and 
influence of independent individuality and character in the sequel 
than in the first part of the heroine’s strange and tragic history. 
All who read one will desire to read the other. 


THE HUNGARIAN GIRL 


21 Ncwl. 


TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF 

MARIAM TENGER 


BY 

S. E. BOGGS, 

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WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WARREN B. DAVIS. 

12mo. 350 pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth- Price, $1.00* 

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G 

This is a stirring romance of the Hungarian revolution of 1848. 
It gives a picture of the society and manners of the period. The 
heroine is allied to a noble family who participated in the gallant 
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A Pine English Novel* 


REUBEN FOREMAN, 

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Cl Nowl. 


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All admirers of Jane Austen’s painstaking and truthful studies 
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JOHN WINTHROP’S DEFEAT. 

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% 

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Miss Ludlum’s new novel is her best. It is a delightful story 
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EDITH TREVOR’S SECRET 


BY 


MRS. HARRIET LEWIS, 

Author of “ Her Double Life,” <i Lady Kildare “ Beryl's 
Husband ,” u The Two Husbands ,” “ Sundered 
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“ Edith Trevor’s Secret” is a romantic love story, the scene of 
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girl, who has been brought up in the shadow of the mountains, 
where she is discovered by a young English nobleman. When 
they have become betrothed, the jealousy and ambition of others 
interpose to prevent the marriage, and a rapid succession of inci- 
dents and situations of surpassing interest follow. 

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CECIL ROSSE 


A SEQUEL TO 

EDITH TREVOR’S SECRET. 


BY 

MRS. HARRIET LEWIS, 

Author of “ Her Double Life,” 11 Lady Kildare ,” “ Beryl's 
Husband ,” “ The Two Husbands “ Sundered 
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“ Cecil Rosse ” is a continuation and conclusion of the extra- 
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the face of diabolical ingenuity with money at command. The 
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Edda's Birthright 


By MRS. HARRIET LEWIS. 


Witt Seven EUustratJcaWb 


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“Edda’s Birthright ” is an excellent noveL Mrs. Lewis has 
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wins the heart of the reader by her truly womanly character. 
The scene of the story is the great city of London, and the 
heroine has many strange incidents and episodes in her life. 
It is her splendid courage which makes her great charm, and 
which finally wins. Every one who reads this book will be well 
repaid. 

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THE TWO HUSBANDS; 

OR, 

BURIED SECRETS. 


BY 

MRS. HARRIET LEWIS. 


Author of “ Her Double Life ,” “ Lady Kildare ,” “ Edda's 
Birthright “ Beryl's Husband ,” etc. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. A. CARTER. 


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This is one of the most interesting of Mrs. Lewis’s novels. It 
opens with the quest for an heiress. Some of the chapter-headings 
are full of suggestiveness, as, for instance : “The Night Before 
the Wedding,” “Husband and Wife,” “Affairs Take a Strange 
Turn,” “A Conflict,” “ Now for Revenge,” “ Explanations,” etc. 
There is a plot and strong situations, and abundance of incident 
and movement in the story. Mrs. Lewis never failed to write a 
novel that would hold the reader from the first to the last chapter 
and satisfy the desire for agreeable excitement. To all who have 
read and admired “Her Double Life” we recommend “The 
Two Husbands.” 

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BERYL’S HUSBAND 


m 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis. 


Author of “ Lady Kildare ,” “ Sundered Hearts ,” “ Hef 
Double Life ,” etc . 


WITH NUMEROUS rULL-PABM ILLUSTRATTON& BY O. A. TRAVER. 

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A very charming story. It opens on the shores of Lake Leman, 
in the romantic city of Geneva, under the shadow of Mont Blanc. 
A young English girl, who has been educated at a boarding- 
school at Vevay, is suddenly left without natural guardians and 
means of support. Her beauty and interesting character attract 
a young English traveller, who induces her to run away with him 
and marry him. This is the beginning of a romantic novel of 
extraordinary vicissitudes and adventures. To give an analysis 
t of the plot and situations would mar the interest of the reader. 
It is sufficient to say that it is equal to the best of Mrs. Lewis’s 
novels, not excepting “ Her Double Life” and “Lady Kildare.” 

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FOR WOMAN’S LOVE 


By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH, 


Author of “The Hidden Hand,” “Unknown,” “ Lost Lady of Lone,” 
“Nearest and Dearest,” “A Leap in the Dark,” etc., etc. 


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In this enthralling love story, 
Mrs. Southworth has given an 
interesting picture of Washing- 
ton society of over half a century 
ago, and of early American poli- 
tics. The scene of the story is 
Washington city and vicinity. 
The heroine, Corona Rockhartt, 
is the granddaughter of a Balti- 
more iron king, and one of the 
author’s most successful crea- 
tions. The story abounds in 
humor; and the negro dialect, 
of which Mrs. Southworth is so 
perfect a master, is irresistible. 
Her negro characters will do 
more to maintain the popularity 
of her books and cause them to 
be read with pleasure for years 
to come than any other merit 
which they possess, great as these 
merits are. “For Woman’s Love ” is a deeply touching love story, 
appealing to the emotions, and of such engrossing interest that its 
perusal is a perfect delight. 


For sale by all Booksellers, and sent, postpaid, on re- 
ceipt of price, by 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, Publishers, 

Cor. William and Spruce Sts., New York. 



THE LOST LADY OF LONE. 


By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH, 

Author of “Unknown,” “The Hidden Hand,” “Nearest and 
Dearest,” “Only a Girl’s Heart,” “For Woman’s Love,” 

“A Leap in the Dark,” etc., etc. 


Paper Cover, 50 Cents. lSoiind Volume, $1.00. 


“The Lost Lady of Lone” is 
one of Mrs. Southworth’s most 
romantic tales. The heroine is 
a woman almost too exquisite 
and admirable for this world. 
Her ideal type might be the cre- 
ation of a poet. She wins the 
heart of the reader from her first 
introduction in the pages of the 
novel, and every circumstance 
that affects her life is followed 
with the intensest sympathy and 
interest. This story is thorough- 
ly characteristic of Mrs. South- 
worth, and possesses all the 
merits of picturesque narration 
and description which distinguish 
her best novels. The scene of 
the story is the ancient castle of 
Lone in Scotland. The hero is 
the heir, who has alienated his 
ancestral home through a desire to gratify the extravagant caprices 
of a beloved parent. The story is full of old-world charm and in- 
terest. 

For sale by all Booksellers, or sent, postpaid, on re- 
ceipt of price, by 

ROBERT BONNER'S SONS, Publishers, 

Cor. William and Spruce Sts., New York. 



By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH, 


Author of “Unknown,” “Self-Made,” “ Winning Her Way,” “Only 
a Girl’s Heart,” “A Deed Without a Name,” etc., etc. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. Bound Volume, $1.00. 


“ The Hidden Hand ; or, 
Oapitola the Madcap,” is one 
of the most popular stories 
ever issued from the press. 
We doubt if, in all the realms 
of literature, there has ever 
been a heroine who could vie 
with the captivating madcap 
Capitola in exciting the ad- 
miration of readers, or in win- 
ning and keeping their hearts. 
&he is so bright, so spirited, 
so beautiful, so sagacious, so 
dauntless, and yet so innocent 
and childlike, that she at once 
takes all readers captive and 
holds them enchained by her 
fascinations clear to the last 
pa ge of the story. 

The way in which Capitola 
outwits, overcomes and cap- 
tures the gigantic and brutal 
robber, Black Donald, when 
he had concealed himself in 
her lonely room at the dead 
of night, and chuckled with 
fiendish glee to think he had 
the bewitching girl in his power, is one of the most thrilling chap- 
ters in the entire range of romantic literature. 

“ The most valuable and popular story ever published in the New 
York Ledger was Mrs. Southworth’s ‘ Hidden Hand.’ So great was 
the demand for it that it was repub lished in the Ledger three times ! 
The cry came from everywhere : * Publish this great story in book 
form !’ And now it is published in book form, and is eagerly read 
by tens of thousands of admirers.”— Passaic City Herald. 

For sale by all Booksellers, or sent, postpaid, on re- 
ceipt of price, by 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, Publishers, 

Cor. William and Spruce Sts,, New York. 




BEATRIX ROHAN. 


a No»tl. 


BY 

MRS. HARRIET LEWIS, 

Author of “ The Two Husbands f “ Her Double Life ,” “Lady 
Kildare “Edith Trevor's Secret,” “Old Life's 
Shadows ,” “ The Haunted Husband ,” etc. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WARREN B. DAVIS. 


12mo. 430 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


“Beatrix Rohan ; or, Hunted for Her Money ” will interest all 
novel-readers, as it is an interesting story based upon the character 
and vicissitudes of fortune of a beautiful and accomplished girl. 
Although Mrs. Lewis, like Jane Austen, died in her forty-second 
year, she managed in her short life to produce a goodly number 
of the most popular novels of her time. They have never before 
appeared in book form, and the edition which is now being pub- 
lished will afford thousands who read them as serials an oppor- 
tunity to renew their acquaintance with their old-time favorites. 
“ Beatrix Rohan ” is not unworthy of the author of “ Her Double 
Life,” and we recommend it to all the readers of the latter story. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, post- 
paid, on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York, 


GLORIA 


21 Nooei. 


BY 

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH, 

Author of “ The Hidden Hand,” “ The Unloved Wife ,” 

“ Lilith,” “ Unknown,” (( A Leap in the Dark,” 

“ Nearest and Dearest,” “ For Woman's 
Love,” “ The Lost Lady of Lone,” 

“ David Lindsay,” etc., etc . 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. A. CARTER. 


12mo. 348 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


The heroine of this novel is one of the most interesting of Mrs. 
Southworth’s charming girls. She is almost as good as Capitola, 
the delightful madcap of ‘‘The Hidden Hand.” Her perfect 
naturalness and gayety are so winning that no one can read her 
history without loving her. The story is full of the charm of 
unsophisticated girlhood and womanhood. We are not claiming 
too much when we say that Mrs. Southworth is one of the most 
engaging writers of fiction that this country has produced. Her 
novels have a larger circulation among the people than those 
of any other American writer. She has the gift of making her 
stories interesting, and filling them with pleasant incidents and 
characters, so that when the reader has finished one he wants 
to take up another. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruge Streets, New York. 


A BRILLIANT NOVEL. 


ROMANCE OF TROUVILLE 

21 JTcroeL 


TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF 

BREHAT, 

EY 

META DE VERE, 

T ranslator of 11 Mademoiselle Desrochesf etc. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WECHSLER. 

12mo. 329 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


This is a characteristic story of life in a brilliant French water- 
ing-place. It gives an admirable picture of the amusements, the 
frivolities, the intrigues, rivalries and jealousies of the fashionable 
people gathered there from all parts of the world. It is full of 
life, color and excitement. In stories of this kind French writers 
are without rivals in England or America. The hero of the story 
is a dashing French officer belonging to the old aristocracy of 
France. The heroine is a beautiful girl of French and English 
parentage. The course of the story develops situations both sur- 
prising and amusing. The movement is brisk and the incidents 
natural and vivacious. The interest never halts, and the story is 
entirely pure and delightful from beginning to end. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


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